There Loomed An Ogre
by Iantalia
Summary: Gen. Post ep for Missing. "...none of them would ever know that it felt like he’d been thrown off a twelve storey building without a safety net." Tony attempts to come to terms with the day's events. CH21 & 22 now up. FINISHED!
1. Chapter 1

There Loomed An Ogre

1

Tony shut the front door behind him with barely a sound, and had the presence of mind to remember to lock it before leaning his forehead onto the cool surface and taking a deep breath of yet more air that didn't smell of corpse.

That thought was all it took; he turned and bolted for the bathroom, heaving until throat, ribs and everything else hurt.

He knelt there for a minute, and a second minute, before he started to feel actual thoughts trying to creep in around the edges of his mind, and that was enough to throw him straight into action. Clothes, shoes – anything that smelt of _that_ place was off, into a bag, then another, then another, then… Then the adrenaline rush wore off again, and he was left holding a parcel of at least seven carriers. Suddenly desperate to have no more to do with them, he raced to the balcony door and slung them out, banging it shut – and locked – again as though the bags would try to walk back in given half a chance.

Next. Shower. He detoured by the kitchen, picking up the lemon juice. He'd no idea if it would work, but it was worth trying – he'd known a couple of guys back in Baltimore who swore by it.

He stopped in the bathroom doorway, as it hit him that he parcelled up the knife along with his clothes that were on the balcony, and he'd have to go back into those _damn_ bags again to get it. Which was before he remembered that his knife wasn't there, because it hadn't come home with him. Which led to his mind coming back face to face with why it hadn't come home with him. Which led to three things – a quick rush of everything he was trying not to think about regarding Gibbs and his team; before that was forcibly shoved into the background by a streak of panic a mile wide that he was unarmed, even though everything was locked, and he couldn't really take a weapon into the shower, but if something were to happen… And then another surge of nausea, fuelled by stench and fear and reaction and self-disgust, that had him diving for the toilet for a second time, the lemon juice rolling to a gentle halt across the bathroom floor.

This time, after his allotted two minutes before his brain tried to come back on line, he headed straight for the shower, pausing only to collect the renegade bottle, and turning the temperature up just a little hotter than he should.

***

He was shocked to find that nearly two hours had passed by the time that he'd finished in the bathroom – showered, hair washed, teeth cleaned, nails scrubbed, shaved. He'd found the bottle of coconut scented stuff that Lisa had left there – what? Four months ago? Maybe five. He'd shoved it in a bedroom cupboard after it flew past his ear when she'd finally worked out that "No, I'm not going to introduce you to my father" was not his way of saying "In a few weeks." He was glad he'd not thrown it now. It had helped.

He pulled on his oldest pair of sweats and a T-shirt that had seen 10 years service and was a good four shades of blue lighter than it had been originally, and mooched back into the kitchen. Didn't want food, but something to drink would be good. Opened the fridge, eyed the single beer within with distaste. It had been sitting there six weeks, and he reckoned it would see another six. The last thing he wanted was alcohol, and he rarely had company. Not in his home.

He shut the fridge again, and headed for the kettle. Coffee it was. He didn't exactly like the stuff, but in this case, it had benefits – strong enough, and he wouldn't be smelling or tasting anything else for a while. And it might help him not sleep into the bargain.

Making it killed a few minutes, anyway. By the time it was ready, he'd scanned the movie racks half-heartedly, knowing he wasn't going to watch any of them. TV on – flick, flick, flick – TV off. Nothing that wouldn't just irritate him by babbling in the background while he was wallowing. He'd settled for a CD from his private collection, and Prokofiev was now softly playing in the background. Dramatic and full of emotion. Just right.

It would _ruin_ his DC reputation if anyone found this one out. Not that that mattered anymore.

***

There was nothing left to do, and he could feel his defences slipping. And much as he wanted to bury his head in the sand and pretend nothing had happened, if he didn't look this thing in the eye here and now, then odds were it would be tomorrow at work, and that would be so much worse, in so many ways.

How had he managed to be so _fucking_ stupid? Screwing up on the case was bad enough, and no doubt he'd be hearing about letting himself get drugged at length from Gibbs tomorrow, and the director as well if his current run of luck held; not to mention the rest of the team sticking their collective oars in.

But then afterwards… Hell, he'd thought he'd got a handle on that behaviour by the time he hit his teens. Begging for a crumb from the big man's table. Looking for a word, a gesture… No, face up to it, DiNozzo. Looking for affirmation. Wanting confirmation that his existing made some sort of difference to someone, somewhere.

He got it. The throwaway comment that Gibbs thought nothing of, and he would catch, and keep, and hide away to pull out in dark times when he needed to remember that once, somebody had valued him._ "Tony, as far as I'm concerned, you're irreplaceable."_ And how sad was he that he'd thought that was probably the best compliment he'd ever received?

He'd thought, for one delighted moment, that he'd meant it. That this hadn't just been a case of catching a killer, and finding him was a by-product, but that the team had been fighting for _him_.

Until he'd seen the desk, and McGee, and heard Gibbs' follow up comment, and the bottom had fallen out of the world again. And it was only years of practice that left him confident that no matter how much his throat had hurt and his stomach had churned, nobody else would have spotted anything that wasn't supposed to be on show.

So he'd looked put out, and then sheepish, and gone to the breakroom for water. Quick verbal report, agreement that the written report could wait until he'd gotten rid of 'eau de sewer' and he'd been able to slip out while the rest of them were getting the evidence put down.

And here he was. Regretting bitterly that he'd used baiting Gibbs as a handy distraction from what he'd just barely lived through. He'd been scared – _really_ scared – but he'd stayed calm, considered his options, thought his way through each problem. And despite his outward resolve in the company of a man much, much worse off than he was, he hadn't been sure they'd be coming for him. Or that they'd find him if they were. He'd figured he was on his own, had been twice as surprised when Gibbs himself showed, and he'd let that colour his reactions once he was safe.

It was a mistake he would _not_ be repeating. He'd sworn blind many years ago that he wouldn't let himself fall into that trap again. He had his own set of rules, and high up on the list was that he never let anybody know their opinion mattered to him. Right beneath remember not to let it matter. He'd learnt that lesson well, having been taught it almost from when he could understand what praise was. Build you up, then pull the ground out from under your feet and laugh when you fall flat on your face.

He swallowed hard on bile and tears and cooling coffee, forcibly reminding himself that he had also sworn he wouldn't waste any more wounded feelings and black moods on grade A bastards who didn't deserve to be given that kind of power.

Trouble was, he'd never found a way to stop it hurting. And he'd gotten complacent. He'd thought he might be fitting in this time; that for all the headslaps and the teasing and the cutting comments, that there was a place for him in this office, in this team. That this might be somewhere he could settle.

He'd not been ready for that to be ripped away so brutally and without warning, let alone at the end of the op from hell that already left him feeling like his skin had been flayed off and his nerves run across a cheese grater.

"_Forget it McGee. He's still alive."_

It still rang in his head, and wouldn't stop, and with every fresh pulse of it he could literally feel the punch of that comment, in his chest and his shoulders and his jaw. Apparently even his body was trying to tell him how monumentally stupid he'd been this time. He'd thought… He'd been wrong. So, so wrong, about everything. They hadn't thought he'd survive, and they weren't bothered.

And he wanted to forget he'd ever heard it, but he couldn't, because by the time he walked back into that office tomorrow he had to be in charge of it, so he could face Gibbs, and Kate, and all of them with a smirk and a throwaway comment, so none of them would ever know that it felt like he'd been thrown off a twelve storey building without a safety net.

When he hit bottom, it was going to hurt like hell.

He thought about going to bed, but dismissed it as an act of futility. There was nothing there tonight but tossing and turning and nightmares. Instead, he pulled on a jacket and shoes, switched his phone onto silent – not that anybody was going to be ringing it – and left the apartment. He knew where he would be welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

2

He'd had maybe two hours sleep once he got back, and then it took another long hot shower and half an hour of psyching himself up before he felt remotely ready to face the office. But he was proud of himself for not faltering once he got there.

By the time he got out of the elevator, brand new knife strapped onto his ankle, he felt sick to his stomach and ready to scream, but he plastered the smile on, and burst into the bullpen in normal fashion. He made for his desk, carefully not thinking about his desk yesterday, and pretended not to notice as Kate eyed him up critically.

"Up all night Tony?"

So he did look a little rough round the edges. A comment like that still deserved a leer. "Wouldn't settle for anything less!"

She harrumphed softly. "You get _any_ sleep?" It was pointed, and irritated, and all the easier to handle for that.

"A little."

"You are… I don't know what you are, Tony. Do you take _anything_ seriously?"

Me? Yeah. A lot more than you'd think. "Would you feel better if I told you I'd spent most of the night contemplating mortality and fate at St Mary Queen of Martyrs?"

She snorted, narrowly avoiding spraying water over the desk. "You? In a church? No, Tony, I wouldn't feel any better if you started lying to me."

See Antony? Told yourself, didn't you kiddo? They don't know you _at all_.

"DiNozzo!"

Uh oh, here we go. I really, really don't want to have to do this. Is it too late to call in sick? "Boss?"

"What are you doing here?"

"You borrowing my lines?" At the look he got, he hurried on. "I work here, boss." I mean – it wasn't that bad a screw up, was it? He scanned the area, looking for any McGees heading towards his – that – desk, but came up with nothing, except a sharp stinging sensation on the crown of his head to remind him that his attention had slipped from where it was meant to be. "Sorry." Perfect. Now he sounded like a sullen 12 year old.

"Aren't you on sick leave?"

"Erm – no, I don't think so. I feel fine." Physically, in any case…

"Doctor agree with that?"

Doctor?

Gibbs evidently took the pause for exactly what it was. "You did get checked out?"

Oh shit. "I got clean, boss, and then… I guess I forgot."

"He was well enough to spend the night carousing. He'll be fine to work."

_Thank you Katie_. That piercing gaze had narrowed in his direction, and then its owner stepped forward, crowding into his space. "Look, I-" A hand shot out, and he only began to breathe again when it returned holding a telephone receiver.

"Ducky. I'm sending DiNozzo down. Yes… Ducky! Check him out. If he's not there in five minutes, let me know. If he's not fit for work, let me know."

He jumped a foot when the phone slammed back down.

"You still here?"

"No!" He shot out of the office before either of them could say another word, breathing a sigh of relief when he found himself alone in the elevator. Enough time to get his balance back before the next round. Get his face back on.

***

Evidently life had decided to give him a break. Ducky had pronounced him fine, in the broader sense of the word, and after two of his Vietnam stories sent him back up to the bullpen. It was long enough and soothing enough for him to be feeling about as settled as he had before he came in. He'd answered where necessary, and otherwise just let the words wash over him and help him detach.

The feeling of wellbeing wasn't exactly lasting, but that was only to be expected while he was writing his report. Keeping it factual was a blessing at last, and he could almost forget the hole in his chest and the ever-present sense of nausea while he worked. Gibbs had vanished, and nobody else was bothering him.

"_You still here?" _Was he? On balance… maybe not any more. If he ever had been.

***

"Ducky?"

"In here." After a moment, the older man emerged from behind the door, wiping his hands. "Good timing, my friend – I've just finished up with Mr Dalberg for Agent Ross's team. How can I help you?"

"Is DiNozzo really ok?"

The smile was replaced by a more thoughtful expression. "He's just a bit banged up, Jethro. Nothing that won't disappear in a week or two." He watched as the tension in his friend's shoulders drained out a little.

"But? No, don't give me that look, I've known you too long. What's the but?"

"I'd be pleasantly surprised to find out he got any sleep last night. And he seems… most on edge. Easily distracted. I don't know exactly, he just didn't seem quite – himself."

"Yeah."

"Not just my observation then? Well, I would imagine it's probably nothing to worry about. All that – it must have been a horrendous ordeal for the lad. He'll bounce back in time."

"Nothing keeps him down for long, huh? You're probably right."

***

One day had been enough. Just the report, and then onto cold cases. Little more was said about the events of yesterday outside the professional, except by Carla in the break room who oohed and cooed over the dark circles and bruising that he wasn't able to hide.

It was time to move on. He couldn't stay, not knowing that he didn't fit, that he'd never belong with these people. It was clear enough now that no matter what he did, he'd never be seen as anything more than an annoying screw up who got underfoot. He knew himself well enough to know that now his eyes had been opened, he wouldn't last long as an outsider in their team. Not without inflicting some fresh and interesting scars onto his psyche.

The time had come. On to the next city, the next job, the newest invention of the Tony DiNozzo personality. See if he could come up with one that would work this time. Find somewhere he could be useful, and become someone else he could discard if circumstances called for it.

He sat on the couch in the dark, with Prokofiev in the background and another strong coffee he didn't exactly like, and pretended he didn't need an hour long hot shower to try and wash the emptiness away, and that there wasn't a seriously overparcelled set of clothes on his balcony that he couldn't bring himself to look at, let alone deal with. Then he pulled out his phone and started to make some calls.


	3. Chapter 3

3

A week on, and he'd managed to settle in to a holding pattern. It was looking like a couple of the feelers he'd put out might net positive results, and in the meantime he arrived early, left on time and in between was systematically reviewing all his own cold case notes to make sure everything was covered and in order. That way, his replacement (McGee? Kate? A new hotshot not yet picked out?) could pick up where he left off without problems or unexpected phone calls from irate ex-bosses.

He deflected the comments about his lack of goofing off (s_o – who are you, and what have you done with Tony DiNozzo?_), and made sure to keep enough of the banter and inane chatter running not to send up any red flags about sudden personality changes. He'd laughed off the couple of comments about his appearance, with a "nudge nudge wink wink" for anything about lack of sleep, and some vanity if it was the weight loss. Once he'd moved on, he'd be able to sleep and eat again. The hurt would stay in DC, with this version of Tony.

He'd had his counselling appointments, with Dr Winters – Julia out of hours, she'd said with a soft smile. Pulled his old personality around him, toned the nudge nudge wink wink down into a soulful glance and a remark about a little much needed tlc, admitted his feelings of fear and vulnerability over being drugged and held captive, and passed with flying colours.

They'd only had one active case all week, and it was a straightforward domestic assault. Gibbs had busted the marine, Kate had sorted out the wife, and he'd stayed out of the way and processed, processed, processed. Photographed the smashed bottle of beer, and the other empties and the slash marks on the wife. Taken the blood from the doorframe and the splinter from knuckles.

Gone back home that night via the victim's place, and left a telephone number and address with her sister that might just help.

Out of hours he'd stayed home, watched movies, listened to CDs and stared into the darkness. The bag was still on the balcony. He needed more coffee. And shower gel. Coconut stuff would be good, too. He didn't go out, unless it was to St Mary Queen of Martyrs, where he could sit in the shadows at the back and try and grasp on to that elusive sense of peace that would never settle. Occasionally Father O'Reilly would come and join him, and sit quietly next to him, and ask him if he would like to share a prayer. Every time he said no, and that praying had never worked for him, and that he wasn't entirely sure he believed in God in any case; and Father O'Reilly told him not to jump to conclusions and that he would pray for him regardless. And then he would sit silently for a few minutes, before he stood up, and gave his neck a squeeze, and told him that he wasn't alone. And Tony would feel pathetically grateful for that, and wonder if that feeling there, where the nausea and the emptiness twisted into a knot that wanted to choke him, if _that_ was belonging.

He'd shown O'Reilly his badge once, the first time he'd crept in silently in the middle of the night, and been given permission – not that he expressly needed it, but this was a _church_, and things had to be done right – to carry his gun. If those solemn green eyes noticed how lately, every so often, Tony would ghost his hand over the weapon to check it was still there, and his brand new knife too, then he never mentioned it.

Finally, when his thoughts had slowed and his emotions lay dormant, he'd head home, and be able to sleep for a while before he started all over again.

***

"Gibbs?"

"Abby."

"What's wrong with Tony?"

He raised his eyebrows at her, and she was off and running. "He's all… not-Tony. Too quiet and too pale and too Stepford wife. And well… boring."

"Stepford wife?"

"You know… Actually, probably, being you, you probably really don't-"

"Abby!"

"The Stepford wives were replaced by aliens, or robots, or – anyway, that doesn't matter. Point is, there were all, like, perfect identikit little people. He's a perfect little person Gibbs, and you have to have noticed. I can't believe you couldn't have noticed!"

"I noticed."

"So-"

"So?"

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"He's an adult, Abs. If he wants to devote his days to doing his work, maybe I should let him."

"No. No, it's all wrong. You need to talk to him."

"Why don't you?"

"'Cause he just deflects and starts acting normal. Normal for Tony, not normal for normal people. Not that he's not normal, 'cause he is, but not at the moment. See? That's where you come in. You can grr him into being himself again."

"You want me to intimidate Tony into being more childish?"

"No! Yes. Not exactly. You know what I mean. Talk to him, Gibbs. For me? Please?"

***

"And how is the delightful Rachel-" The line abruptly went dead, and his eyes followed the wire back, until they found the large, annoyed looking finger sitting on the top of the phone. "Boss?"

"With me."

"Right boss. We going far? Ow!"

"Not very."

By the looks he wasn't getting, nobody was that surprised at that. Which meant that most likely, this was going to be A Chat. Fine. He could handle that.

He _could_.

Into the elevator. He waited, but there was no emergency stop. Ground floor. Out again. Through the front door. Somewhere on foot was good. The nausea was bad enough as it was, without getting in a truck with-

"Keep up, DiNozzo!"

Mind you, the need for speed would appear to be the same on foot.

Around the corner. Straight on. Left.

"Lionel's?"

"I have spent three solid hours on spurious paperwork for interdepartmental liaison. I need real coffee, and proper food. And company. You weren't busy and could use the food."

Ah, right. Everyone else is too busy to be dragged out of the office. And this way, you can take your paperwork out on me without upsetting anybody important, and have That Chat without an audience.

"You got a problem with that?"

"No, Boss."

***

Fifteen minutes later he was lazily rearranging a chicken salad around his plate, occasionally sipping his water, and watching the systematic destruction of a lasagne that looked like it should have smelt delicious.

Unfortunately it just made him feel sicker, and he couldn't offer it the devotion it deserved.

"This all down to your little trek in the sewers?"

After the silence, the abrupt question took a minute to process, which he spent staring back at an increasingly interested looking face.

"Not that hungry, I guess. Had a donut not long back." The waitress passed by again – the fifth time since they'd sat down – and he took a moment to appreciate the view.

"You are never not hungry. Haven't actually seen you eat anything in a week."

"You and Kate have spent months telling me you don't like to watch me eat in the bullpen."

"You listened?"

Yeah, I listen. Don't look so surprised. "Thought you might appreciate it if I took your words of wisdom on board once in a while, oh fearless leader."

"Huh."

Sum total of my feedback – a noncommittal grunt. Wonderful. He stabbed semi-viciously at a particularly inoffensive piece of chicken, and made sure to eat it, just to prove a point. When it looked like it was going to stay put, he recklessly followed it with a forkful of leaves.

"It's not just the eating, you know. It's the pale face, and the bags under your eyes, and the… the…"

"The…?" Jeez, that sounded cold even to himself. Need to watch that sensitive spot there.

"The Stepford Wife thing."

He looked across in disbelief. "You've been talking to Abby."

He winced. "Abby has been talking to me."

"And this little dinner-cum-interrogation is the result?"

He winced again. New record.

"She's worried about you. I promised her I'd talk to you."

"I _told_ her I was fine. Hell, I concentrate on my work a bit more than people expect and everybody thinks I'm a cause for concern?"

"You have been a bit – flat."

"I still haven't quite stopped smelling corpse." And he hadn't meant to say that. Oh well, there were worse things he could have admitted to. But that was it. The salad was done. One more bite and he'd be back in the bathroom, and that was not going to happen in front of Gibbs. "Forgive me if I'm not quite keeping to Abby's master schedule."

"I thought Dr Winters passed you?"

"She did. I'm _fine_. I believe the phrase she used was 'a normal human reaction'." He paused and swilled his water about a bit, looking for a way to finish this conversation quickly. "I know it's difficult to believe, but I _am_ only human, after all." _If you cut me, do I not bleed?_ He heaved a sigh, and decided to add on the honesty. "Look, close calls make you re-evaluate, you know? I've just been thinking more than normal."

There was that small twist of lips that denoted a private joke. "No wonder people are uncomfortable."

He felt the sudden increasingly familiar pain spreading out from the hole that had taken up residence around his breastbone in the last week. "Guess not."

"Leave the thinking to McGee. It's what he's good at. You done?"

Done thinking? After that put down, I should hope so. Oh – the salad. Right. "Yeah."

"Come on then. Haven't got all day."

***

They were back inside the office before either of them spoke again.

"Boss? That phone call-"

"Should have been made on your own time. Work time is for working, DiNozzo."

Didn't you just get through telling me how my working in work time is upsetting people, and I should be more…less…whatever? Story of my life: damned if I do and damned if I don't. Just call me Simpson – Bart Simpson. "I think I may have a lead on a case you worked. Four years ago – Marine named David Patterson was beaten to death in a parking lot?"

"I remember."

"You interviewed the mistress, Lesley Tolsen? Well I worked a case in Baltimore where a runner was beaten to death in a park. Witness that called it in was a Lesley Tolsen. I was on the phone to Pete Graham, my old boss over there – he's sending the files across this afternoon for me to take a look at, see if there's any link."

"Keep me posted." He strode off towards his desk, leaving Tony standing in his wake, wondering why after all his self-lectures and personal pep talks, he was still padding around like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head that was never gonna come.

The sooner he moved on, the better.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Two more weeks had passed grindingly slowly, and his sanity was hanging by threads. For all the moving about he'd done in his life, he'd always hated the in-between, that period of mental transition where _here_ was no longer somewhere or someone he was comfortable with, and _there_ was not yet defined. It always left him feeling like he was twisting in the wind, at the mercy of whatever fate was going to send, and that set his teeth on edge, his nerves jumping and his irritation threshold at an all time low.

And when his current set of colleagues seemed to be doing their best to test the full extent of that threshold, it meant he ended up exhausted every night from the constant battle to remember who he was supposed to be, and how he was meant to be reacting. Keeping up appearances, his father had called it. _It doesn't matter what you think about it Anthony. You're a DiNozzo. Look like one. Act like one._

They were all being so deliberately normal that it made him wish that someone – anyone, at this point – would realise he was neither blind nor stupid, and do some straight talking. Instead, he was surrounded by people acting like caricatures and getting on his last nerve. He'd checked, to be sure, and he was right - it was definitely the only remaining nerve he could find that wasn't twanging away to a country rhythm.

Kate was constantly sending him sideways glances, and seemed to be working needling him into an art form. Every time McGee crossed his path he ducked his head and refused to meet Tony's eye, and if he had to speak he stammered and stuttered like an untuned engine. Abby had tried a course of unprovoked hugs, and after surprising him once too often at the wrong moment and getting snapped at, was now sticking to the lab and alternating between remote pestering and cold shoulder.

Ducky had had a little chat about the importance of sleep in the young, which had sidestepped into an anecdote about his University days, a surprisingly impressive string of young women, and a couple of revelations that he'd really rather not have heard.

And Gibbs kept watching him.

Really, he thought, paying minimum attention as Bruce Willis narrowly missed getting shot again, it was overkill. Granted, he didn't look brilliant, but he didn't think he looked that bad either. And he was working well, which was supposed to be the point as far as he was aware. The Baltimore lead was looking promising. Last week's murder had wrapped up easily, without a bruise between them, largely due to the fact that he'd known something was off with the brother right from the start, and had thrown all his nervous energy into discovering what. In the office, he was still trying his damndest to stay out from underfoot; and as best he could see he hadn't _really_ offended or upset anyone in days. Except Abby, and that had been… well. So he didn't chatter so much and didn't goof off and join in with the social life recently. Big deal.

What was it Abby had said after the hug that went wrong? _"You know Tony, I used to think you were a nice guy. Get out of here before I change my mind."_ I'm trying to, he wanted to say. Won't be long now Abs.

"_How could you, anyway? Here I am trying to be your friend, and you – you don't deserve me! Out!"_

She'd bundled him and his attempted "I'm sorry" out of the door, just as McGee was coming in the opposite direction.

"_Timmy! Come on, come on, you have to see this." _And she grabbed his hand and pulled him in, not sparing another glance for Tony.

He'd taken a walk at that point, just gone for half an hour while he wrestled with the emptiness, and the hole, and the tears that he been refusing to give in to for three straight weeks. He'd known the rest had given up on him, but had thought Abby was different. She'd still had some use for him, it seemed.

Until she'd blindsided him. He'd not heard her coming until she'd grabbed him from behind, and his instincts were too far ahead of his brains. So he shoved her away, and shouted at her to back the hell off, and everything had fallen apart. And he'd wanted to say _"I'm sorry"_, and _"You startled me"_, but he hadn't been able to get a word in, and anyway, she was right, he didn't deserve her. More to the point, she didn't deserve him and his baggage and his scars.

Let her mother McGee. He'd be gone soon, and then it wouldn't matter anymore, and he wouldn't feel as alone in a city full of strangers as he did now.

***

He didn't make it in to the office until gone two the following day, heading straight out from his apartment to interview thirteen teenage witnesses to a harassment allegation. The bullpen was strangely subdued when he did finally get there, and Kate looked up, shrugged and said "He's been in with the director for the last ten minutes." No question about who _he_ was. His prompt was met with a shrug that said _you think I'd know?_, and a change of subject to the one that was really bugging her.

"So how was the gaggle of giggling girlies?"

She'd insisted on going to do the job as soon as it came up – apparently, she thought sending him to interview teenage girls was a bad idea. To be fair, _he_ thought that sending him to interview teenage girls was a bad idea too, but Gibbs was immovable on the subject, certain that they'd speak to him, and not to her. That hadn't gone down well, but this was Gibbs, and he'd shut her up and closed the discussion before she got more than a dozen words into her argument.

Hopefully, the fact that each hour of the damn case so far had felt like at least a year by the time he'd sorted out truth from fiction (the overwrought teenage girl version of it, at that) would make her feel better.

If not, maybe he should try a rousing chorus of Luck Be A Lady Tonight. He'd certainly appreciate it if he could persuade the doyenne of fate to come stand on his side of the fence for a change, and Kate would get a laugh either way.

***

The ten minutes had turned into over an hour before the entire building reverberated to the slam of a door opening, followed by the pounding of feet on stairs. He tucked himself deeper into his chair, concentrating hard on a) transcribing, and b) staying off hurricane Gibbs' radar.

Of course, true to form, the hurricane swept straight up to his desk, and stayed there, and when he looked up, the thunderous expression that met his gaze had him quaking internally, despite not having the faintest clue what he'd done this time.

He didn't have long to wait to find out. In a voice that carried a tone of pure menace right across the room, it took just two words.

"Boston, DiNozzo?"

Ah.

When he didn't say anything in reply, he took it one step farther. "Apparently, Todd, we have a vacancy for Senior Field Agent. Our current incumbent is moving on." He was pinned with one more glare, and then his boss swept out of the office, leaving him to face Kate's open-mouthed curiosity.

From all that, he guessed Boston PD had liked his application.


	5. Chapter 5

5

He was back sitting in the dark again. The coffee had given way to water, but after a brief flirtation with Mozart he'd dismissed the Austrian as altogether too cheery, and had reverted to Russian melodrama. One step forward, two steps back. He should have been a dancer.

Needless to say, he'd heard nothing personally from Boston. Not that he'd really expected to get such a neat, quick solution to the mess that he'd managed to make of this particular life, but it would have been nice. For once. Realistically, it would have been far too easy an option for Dame Fortune to take – not when there was a let's kick Tony when he's down alternative.

Anyway, given the furore they had unwittingly unleashed on him he was rapidly going off Boston PD as an option. It had been way past late by the time he'd gotten home, after being grilled by what felt like half the building. He hadn't known that gossip could spread so damn fast. If one more person told him what an idiot he was, how he was throwing away the best thing that had ever happened to him, or that he really should think first, he wouldn't be responsible for his actions.

The fact that nobody considered he might have done nothing _but_ think about this for the last three weeks just served to underline it was the right decision.

If every cloud had a silver lining, his was that Gibbs had not been seen since his earlier dramatic exit. He didn't think he would have survived a confrontation where he was expected to actually _participate_ with his self-image intact.

He hurt all over, and most of it was from blows you couldn't see.

"_If you're determined to throw your future away Tony, far be it for me to interfere."_

"_What in God's name do you think you're doing? Are you __trying__ to piss Gibbs off?"_

"_Do you seriously think you can do better for yourself in Boston PD?"_

His temper, and his control, had got worse and worse as the day had gone on. He'd told Kate that if she spent as much time worrying about her own life as she did his, then she might manage to get laid more than once in an eternity. That had gone down every bit as well as it was meant to, and led to a spectacular argument that quickly turned really vicious, and only ended when she called him a self absorbed child who didn't know how to be grateful, and he responded that it was a step up from cold hearted bitch, and he was sure that he wouldn't be the last man she drove away.

Ruth from Dolan's team got suggestive comments about cleavages, which while it was an obvious topic where she was concerned, was never a prudent one. Within minutes of her stalking out after slapping him in the face, Dolan was told to mind his own business, stay out of his way – and failing that, feel free to report him, and let's see who would win that one.

Ducky got a terse, and unforgivably crude, comment about Boston women and how they might relate to his own University years that earned him no answer except for a single look of disappointment and reproach which was far and away the most painful point of the whole day.

And Abby, with impeccable ability, was still not talking to him, whilst sending a whole string of messages varying from "Is it my fault?" to "Come here so I can knock some sense into you." He was ignoring them.

All in all, the temptation to call it quits and not go back again was a siren song to his beleaguered soul. But that would be incredibly unprofessional, and he'd be letting himself down. No, worse than that – he'd be making a conscious decision to take a path that he knew was wrong, just because it was easy. Switching horses to cut his losses was one thing. Not taking his job seriously because it had gotten too hard was quite another, and he refused to live down to people's expectations just to smooth the way.

Of course while it was all very noble to say that this was never really a decision that needed to be made, he couldn't actually see _how_ he was going to manage to get through another day like this one, much less a couple of weeks, or even more. He needed things to be settled, and soon, so he could find his footing again. He was_ so_ sick of everything crashing around his ears, an endless tumbling that meant he could never grasp on long enough to start rebuilding.

Wanting to derail that train of thought before it could lead him into darker places, he looked to the clock in the hope of distraction. He'd been sitting in the dark for over an hour, apparently. It was getting to be a habit.

***

A sudden pounding in the hallway had him leaping a mile in the air and frantically checking his weapons yet again, before he reminded himself that it was just somebody knocking on the door – albeit very loudly. And the door was locked, and he had no intention of answering it, so it wasn't an issue.

Then he heard the key turn, and his heart hit the floor, hard, before bouncing right back up to his throat. Only one person that wasn't himself had a key.

"You'd better be in here DiNozzo!" It was a bellow that made his knees shake, and he decided against standing up. Looked like Gibbs was seeing himself in anyway. "Fine." At least the volume was dropping, even if the owner was coming closer. "I'll wait".

He squinted up as light flooded the room, reawakening his headache. And there loomed an ogre, brandishing an unopened bottle of bourbon and a killer temper. "Why the hell are you sitting in the dark? And why didn't you answer?"

"Because it's my home and my choice?"

He didn't dignify that with a response, stalking past and into the kitchen. With a sigh, Tony heaved himself off the couch and followed. His (soon to be ex) boss had found himself a tumbler and poured a generous measure by the time he got there, and they eyed each other up silently for a moment.

The fact that he would crack first was never really in any doubt.

"What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Low, incredulous, and still very, very menacing. The contents of the glass vanished in one swallow, and the glass banged heavily back onto the side. "I want to know what Boston PD has that we don't. I want to know why I had to find out about it from the Director. I want to know why _he_ had to find out from the FBI. In short, I want to know what the hell you think you're playing at!"

Another generous measure of bourbon landed in the glass while he tried desperately to think of something to say that wouldn't make matters worse. Nothing came to mind.

"The FBI?" Scratch that. Nothing _intelligent_ came to mind.

"One of Fornell's team has a brother in law high up in Boston PD. He called up for the inside line on you. Word spread. Fornell was sniffing around whether it was true that you were open to offers." The second glass disappeared as quickly as the first, and Tony was beginning to feel seriously out of his depth. He could feel the nerves crawling up and around his spine, sending tendrils out into his limbs, draining his strength right along with his self-preservation.

"Come on, Gibbs. I've no intentions of jumping over to Fornell's team." He was talking to his back now, as the bottle headed for the glass yet again. "And I didn't even know Boston had been in touch – they've not actually offered me anything yet."

"Goddamnit, DiNozzo!" It was a full on roar, as he swung back round, bottle in one hand, glass in the other.

And for the second time in a week, instinct got the drop on sense. He heard the noise, and the rage, and saw the flash of light off the bottle and the movement of the man coming at him. And he cowered.

There was no other word for it. Pride be damned, this was not just a flinch in the face of an irate boss, or a cringe at a poor choice of words and timing. No, this was duck and cover, and it stopped Gibbs in his tracks. In other circumstances, the vaguely bewildered look on his face would have been funny, but here and now, with the silence of the apartment broken only by the muted sound of Russian ballet music and his own ragged – no, no, do yourself justice here Tony, _panicked_ – breathing, there was nothing remotely amusing.

"You don't seriously think I'd-" He took a pace forward as he spoke, and without thought, Tony took two back, rapidly. Gibbs stopped again, and took a good look at him, and he felt the colour rise in his face as every nuance was catalogued by a pair of eyes he know damn well missed nothing. After an eternity of no more than two minutes, the other man moved back again, put the bottle and glass on the side, and then spoke, using a tone of voice he had only ever heard produced for shell shocked victims at crime scenes. "The bottle's right here. Do whatever you like with it." And it was such an unusual tone for Gibbs, gentle and careful and so unlike the abrasive, irritable man he mostly was.

"Tony!" The command tone caught his attention, and he dragged his wandering thoughts back to the words being said with an effort. "I mean it. Pour it out, throw it away, lock it up. Whatever you want. We'll stick to coffee for the rest of this conversation. I'll be in there with – the Romeo and Juliet suite?" He shook his head in dismissal. "Never mind." The focus came back onto him. "Take your time."

His eyes refused to stop watching warily until Gibbs was no longer in sight, having exited the kitchen in one silent, fluid flow of movement that made a mockery of the anger of a few moments earlier. Back pressed up against the kitchen wall, tension in every muscle, breathing coming in short gasps and brain blessedly refusing to get involved, he sank to the floor before unsteady legs gave out, buried his head in his knees and prayed the world would go away.


	6. Chapter 6

6

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there before he came to the conclusion that the world was not going anywhere, thank you very much. Which meant he was going to have to face it, sooner or later, whatever his personal feelings on the subject.

Ah well, no time like the present and all that.

Sticking firmly to facts, he started to take stock. Breathing? Back to normal, more or less. Ass? Sick to death of a hard kitchen floor. Back? Ow. Ow multiplied, in fact. Too long in one position while his thought processes took a short vacation. But he knew where he was, and when he was, which was a definite improvement.

Unfortunately, if all the signs were that that little episode was very much over, then that included the fact that a small area of his brain with all the safety instincts of a lemming was back up and running and trying to remind him that Gibbs was undoubtedly still sitting on his couch, waiting for him to explain this one.

That though, was something that he couldn't do anything about, and if he focused on it right now he'd probably bury himself back in his knees and refuse to come out for a year.

At which point Gibbs would still be sitting on his sofa waiting impatiently, and he'd still have to face him.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as his Grandmother used to say. Ok Tony, one step at a time. How 'bout we go with getting up right now?

He pulled himself to his feet, back, ass and legs protesting all the way, and gave a vote of thanks to his body for the fact that the earlier unsteadiness was gone.

First order of business was simple – the bourbon. Once both bottle and glass had been dealt with, the counter wiped, the kettle filled, everything straightened up and tidied whether it needed it or not and he'd checked around the kitchen to make sure there was nothing else he could come up with to do that could legitimately delay him further, he turned his mind to the next hurdle.

Gibbs.

No way was he walking in there to face the man without being absolutely sure there would be no repeat of that… interlude. Bad enough that his boss had seen that once – he wasn't going to let blatant carelessness set up a repeat. He heaved a huge sigh; albeit a noiseless one, because he'd be damned if he was going to give the other man reason to come charging in before he was good and ready.

Then he braced himself on the counter and set about stretching out all the aches and pains, concentrating on each one at a time and losing himself in the familiar physical ebb and flow of his old college warm down. He followed that with several slow, deep breaths, before turning around to lean back on the counter and blanking his mind of everything except the sights, sounds and smells of the woodlands a mile down the road from his childhood home.

It took the better part of five minutes to be sure that any residual shaking was gone, and another five to firmly cement away any hint of the treacherous tears that had been lurking around the edges of his emotions lately. Three more were spent double and triple locking away anything he didn't want to think about.

Then he gathered up all the courage he had left, and headed into the main room – only to stop short on the verge of losing the lot as he saw Gibbs standing out on the balcony, staring at the plastic bag parcel.

"This is…?"

Truth? Hide? Play Dumb? "Trash. Hadn't gotten around to throwing it yet." His voice sounded high, and a little thin, but the other man ignored it, and he was grateful, despite his irritation at being eyed like a horse that might bolt any minute.

"You want me to?"

What? He could feel himself gaping, and snapped his jaw shut before anyone else could notice. "You came round to play garbage man?"

"No, I came round to see what was going on with you, and I think I know less than when I arrived."

"Ah. Er… you still want that coffee?"

After a moment where Gibbs just _looked_ at him, there was a slow nod that he was decidedly grateful for. And while it took some effort not to look like he _was_ bolting, he thought he might have achieved it.

More precious minutes were put to work as he futzed with the coffee, He should never have gone back out in the first place if he could get wrong-footed so easily. So _quickly_. Still, he regained his hard won equilibrium more smoothly the second time around. The sheer familiarity of the process calmed both his abused nerves and his flagging resolve somewhat, so that by the time he went back through, he was steady enough to not spill a drop, and doubly certain that he was as ready as he could be for anything that might get thrown at him. The fact that the balcony was closed and locked again gave him an extra boost – just enough for him to decide to join the other man on the couch instead of keeping half a room between them.

They drank in silence for a while, as he worked through what he knew he had to say.

"I was going to tell you about the job myself – you shouldn't have had to hear it from someone else. I just thought I'd wait until I had something official. Honestly, I'd no idea it would get so out of hand."

"But why go at all? I don't get this, Tony. I know that it was a rough op, but running clear out of the State? Right after a commendation? Can't make any sense of it."

"A what?"

Gibbs looked at him blankly, and he offered a prompt. "Right after…"

"…a commendation. If _you _can't grasp the logic of what you're doing, then what hope do the rest of us have?"

"What commendation?"

The blankness was giving way to impatience, and he could feel the fluttering starting in the pit of his stomach. Those nerves in his spine were off and running too.

"The one for your actions in saving a marine's life?"

Nope. Sorry. Not falling for that one again. And shit, but that's a dirty trick, even without an audience.

"Tony?"

"Whatever you say, Gibbs. Look, I'm sorry it came out this way, but it did, and I can't do anything about it now."

"You won't reconsider?"

"Is there any point?"

"You really want to leave that badly?"

"Can't stay here."

For once, the almighty Gibbs looked at a loss. Evidently he had expected him to fall hook, line and sinker for the commendation comment. Victory would have felt good if it didn't still hurt so bad he could barely think straight.

"Have you even talked this over with anybody?"

Oh for… he had had more than enough of this. "What, you think I can't make decisions on my own any more? Who, exactly, do you think I should have been getting to wield the rubber stamp?"

"Any of us! Making your own decisions isn't all its cracked up to be at the best of times, and its hardly one of those when you rush headfirst into a bad choice on the back of one lousy experience. You're not thinking straight, Tony, and every last one of us would have told you so if you'd only given us the chance. You're all over the place!"

"I'm fine."

"No. You're not. If you don't want to talk to me, that's your choice, but for pity's sake talk to someone. Talk to Abby."

That forced a strangled laugh. "Haven't you heard? Abby's not talking to me. At great length. Screwed that up too."

"So talk to me, about Abby."

Goddamn persistent… Enough was enough. This was his _home_, and he wasn't going to put up with being pushed around in it. "What do you care? You'll all be glad to see the back of me. Why not just admit it instead of stirring up all this goddamn fuss over absolutely nothing?" He knew he'd shouted the last few words, and berated himself for letting his calm slip. Too emotional. Too _telling_. He knew how to do this dance, and emotion had no place in it. Give an opponent a glimpse of how to slip inside your armour, and next thing you knew, you'd be in control of nothing at all.

Suddenly too agitated to sit still, he gathered up the lone coffee mug and headed to the kitchen. Once there he found himself at a loss, settling for standing in the middle of the room, staring in fascination as his hands quivered under his gaze.

"Tony?"

Of course he'd followed him. At least he only jumped a little this time. He was proud of himself for that.

"Just go."

"Can't do that."

"Please?" He kept his back to him. If he looked right now, the dam was going to burst, and within twelve hours all of NCIS would know about every last juicy detail. He wanted to keep some dignity. He wanted to keep a lot more, but you had to make choices in life, between the necessary and everything else. Self preservation was _necessary_. Houses, jobs, people – they could all be replaced if it came to it. Lose his ability to look people in the eye, and there might not be enough left to start over with.

"No. Boston be damned, right now you are still _my_ agent, and I'm not about to walk out and leave you alone like this. You're on the verge of a breakdown."

Closer than you think, boss. _ And_. _You. Are. Not. Helping_. "I'm _fine!_"

"So those aren't your clothes from three weeks ago still sitting on the balcony?"

Busted.

"You're trembling, Mr _Fine_." He felt a hand on his shoulder, and the combination of wanting so badly for it to be the comfort it pretended to be, while knowing it was just another way to try and control him, had him shaking it off abruptly, accompanied by a single mostly choked back sob that he hadn't meant to let free.

"Throw what you like at me. Figuratively or literally. I'm not going anywhere."

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Because you look like you're too alone already."

Well. He really didn't have an answer for that one.


	7. Chapter 7

7

An uneasy peace settled around them in the wake of their latest exchange. Gibbs didn't offer any follow up, seemingly content to just stand and watch and wait. After all, he had the upper hand – he was already _there_. To get his own preferred outcome, Tony had to find a way to make him leave. Better men than him had tried and failed.

He genuinely had no idea what to do next. Alright, so in an ideal world he'd bundle him out without ceremony, or failing that find a way to shut him up – but as he'd already established, the chances of him achieving either one made the odds on snowballs surviving hell look attractive. Still, he would really, _really_ appreciate it if he could find a way to stop him following him around, poking holes in his equilibrium whenever he wasn't looking.

Why did the man have to keep dropping those damn comments, anyway? What authority did he have to come in here and pass judgement? He had no idea what he was talking about - not that that made much difference to his ability to find a weak spot and home in on it, mind you. Happily, though, he was well wide of the mark with that effort. _Too alone._ Huh. Showed what he knew about it. He and alone were old friends – he couldn't _be_ too alone. Alone was his sanctuary, and his salvation, and had been for many, many years.

Unlike lonely. Now _there_ was one of the most insidious foes you could ever meet. He knew, with that bone deep certainty reserved for eternal truths that were never learnt, had just always been there, that he would never find a way to vanquish lonely. But he could sure as hell outrun him for a while.

He'd been silent too long, and knew it would be taken as acquiescence; a battle lost, a point conceded. He wished he could deny it, or come up with some plan of words or action that would put him back in control of this conversation, but he could neither see nor feel the path that would get him there.

That didn't mean he had to back down, though. He might not be winning, but he wasn't losing either. He set his shoulders with a steadying breath, lifting his head to meet him eye to eye.

It was a mistake. He'd hoped to meet blank and inscrutable with challenge and determination, but instead found himself faltering in the face of that too familiar expression; the one which suggested that every thought that ran though your head was public property, just waiting to be held up on the altar of Gibbs utter self assurance and found wanting.

He did _not_ want the man inside his head. He was having enough trouble with him just in the apartment.

Three long weeks ago, he would have cracked. He'd have figured he didn't stand a chance and backed down, wanting to please him, to get it right, to earn a good word.

Three weeks ago, he'd been a misguided fool who'd forgotten some of the most basic lessons in life.

_You can only rely on yourself._

_Trust is no more than another weapon. Never let anybody get close enough to use it against you._

_Nothing is permanent._

Now he remembered. He was grateful, in a perverse sort of way. There had been a time when he would have sworn those lessons were unforgettable, permanently etched on his soul. But somewhere along the way he'd lost his clarity, and allowed himself to get dragged off course. He'd started thinking that he could blur the edges – that he could pick and choose who, and how. That he could let his guard down. And where had that got him? Drugged into unconsciousness and trapped in a sewer.

Having meandered its way there, his mind shied abruptly away from the memory. Struggling to breathe once again in a kitchen that had become way too crowded, he pushed past and out, throwing himself back onto the couch, and wishing he didn't work for a deliberately obtuse bastard who wouldn't take no for an answer. Which, he thought irritably, was kinda what had led to this confrontation in the first place.

He knew his shadow had rejoined him when he smelt more coffee, but refused to open his eyes and acknowledge his presence.

It didn't matter. Said presence took his attention for granted.

"What do I want?" The words may have been the same, but the second repetition bore none of the anger of its earlier incarnation. This was quieter, and held a note of something raw that he couldn't quite identify, and wasn't sure he wanted to. "I want to know what's wrong. I want to know how to fix it. I want you to tell me what happened to make you believe that not one of us would listen or care if you came and asked for help."

And finally he was presented with something he could deal with up front. _Hallelujah_.

"Well, why didn't you say so sooner? In order: nothing that can't be solved by a change of scenery; you can't; I opened my eyes and ears and started taking notice." He paused for a few seconds, but temptation was too great. "So you've got what you wanted. _Now_ will you go?" They both knew it was an empty question, but he still felt it had to be said, for form's sake if nothing else.

True to his expectations, it got no answer. Instead the room lapsed into silence again, and he chose to remain hidden behind his eyelids. Of course, there was no hope of him out-waiting Gibbs, and he knew it. Instead, he blanked his mind of everything, headed back to those woods, and only when he could feel the sun on his face and the solidity of his old resolutions sitting deep within his chest did he decide to rejoin the rest of the room.

Gibbs was sitting at the other end of the couch, no doubt biding his time. Tony eyed him warily, wondering what he was going to do next.

"Better?" He didn't respond to that, chiefly because the question was neither as simple nor as innocuous as it sounded. "I brought you water – unless you'd prefer coffee?" This time he shook his head silently, and by the time he sat forward Gibbs was handing him the bottle.

After drinking, he reverted to watching the older man, waiting for him to make the next move.

"Let's get one thing straight for a start. This is _not_ a fuss over nothing, Tony. I don't want you to leave. _No-one_ wants you to leave. I've just about got this team to what I want it to be. You go and I'll have to start from scratch."

"No, you won't. You'll just have one agent to replace."

"_Senior_ Agent. They're not as easy to come by as you'd think. Irreplaceable, remember?"

Over the years, he'd learnt a lot about human nature, both from desire and necessity. It was a universal fact that people liked to label those around them. Once they had you pegged - as an easy going lightweight, or a playboy only interested in the good times, or an eternal joker who couldn't be relied on, they were happy. It was rare that someone would go seeking anything new once you were slotted into your box, unless you give them sound reason to. Or unless you were Tony DiNozzo, who looked, and noticed, and learnt; and never, ever took anybody at face value, no matter how long he'd known them.

So people missed parts of him. He did have a temper, and he did have a serious side - he just liked to keep both to himself. No one went looking for those other sides to him, and that was exactly how he wanted it. They were parts of himself _for_ himself, and only to be released when the time was right for them.

'Irreplaceable', however, cut straight across every shred of common sense and restraint he possessed with a visceral stab of pain that shot though him like a lightning bolt, sending him to his feet once again.

"Oh for… You really _are_ just like him, aren't you? Neither of you _ever_ quit!" He took a moment for vengeful satisfaction at the expression of pure shock looking back up at him, before ploughing on. "You already used that hook, Special Agent Gibbs, and I know the punch line. No doubt McGeek is polishing his desk already, blissfully unaware of what he's getting into! So you can take your bullying, and your loaded, practically non-existent praise, and your impatient fucking temper, and inflict it on someone who's still willing to jump through your hoops! Now _get out of my home_!"

There was a stunned pause, before the other man spoke again. "_That's_ what this is about? You thought I was _serious_? Jesus _Christ_, Tony…"

"I said get out."

Gibbs stopped short at the tone, eyeing him speculatively, and he smiled to himself internally. He didn't throw his weight about very often, but he'd learnt (and, come to that, was still learning, at least for another week or two) how to do it from the very best.

"No."

He could feel the adrenaline flowing through him now, arms and legs and fingers and toes all itching and twitching and wanting to do something. Three weeks worth of suppressed misery, fear and self-hate all twisting and zinging around and looking for an outlet.

"I'm not going anywhere. We're not done here."

He balled his hands up into fists, and let the fizzing emotions flow. They were feral, and primal, and looking for blood.

"We can sort this out. Now I know what the problem is, we can fix it."

He could feel the liquid turning to white hot lava in his veins, bubbling and boiling. He didn't want to listen any more, not to a lying face and a gentle voice. Not to words and tones he was desperate to hear and dreaded in equal measure. He wanted to vent. He wanted to get his own back. And if _he_ wouldn't leave after he'd been asked, then it was his own fault, wasn't it?

"Hit me, if it makes you feel better. I won't hit you back."

You won't get a chance, you lying, vicious, bullying bastard. Not this time.

"But I don't think you will. Because I'm not your father. And neither are you."

For a long time, he just stared, horror-struck, at Gibbs. Only when he caught movement from the corner of his eye did the trance break, and before the other man could take a second step in his direction, he'd gathered his wits, side-stepped down the blind side and was heading out of the room.

"Tony-"

He heard the single word, half plea, half demand, floating after him as if from a thousand miles away, but he spared it neither a thought nor a backward glance as he wrenched the door open and fled into the night.


	8. Chapter 8

8

Hold on to your temper, Ducky said. Think before you speak, Ducky said. Listen when he talks, Ducky said.

When he talks? Looked like Ducky had underestimated the inner workings of DiNozzo, too.

As for Abby's "You tell him he's not going anywhere, Gibbs. Yes? Tell him we won't let him!" - complete with stamping foot – he was glad he'd not used that as a template. He'd have been spitting teeth by now.

That had been close. For a few seconds, he'd been sure Tony would go for him.

Wouldn't have blamed him if he had, but he was damn glad he hadn't. Quite apart from the fact that with that kind of red mist, he could have done quite a bit of damage from ferocity alone, the kid would probably have been beating _himself_ up for it the second he finished, and he was in a bad enough state as it was.

And that was his fault.

Unequivocally.

Inescapably.

If he hadn't been so wrapped up in his own damn guilt…

If he'd been paying more attention…

If he'd done his damn job properly…

If he hadn't made that stupid, _stupid_ comment…

_If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there'd be no need for tinkers…_

He'd definitely been around Ducky too much lately.

Heaving a sigh, he sat down heavily on the couch and thought about what to do next.

Tony had been off so fast there was no chance of following him – he'd not had that turn of speed fifteen years ago, let alone now.

Of course, that didn't rule out _finding_ him, but if he tried that without at least having some idea of what he was going to do when he got there, then he'd likely do more harm than good.

Again.

Really, he _should_ check in with Ducky. They'd all be waiting for an update.

And say what, Jethro? That you've screwed it up worse than it already was? That you've got proof you're better at breaking things than mending them? That you're definitely the wrong man for this job?

Maybe not.

Sitting here in indecision wasn't going to help, though.

And he only had himself to blame. Knew that three weeks ago, long before he'd had to come face to face with his own thoughtless joke reflected back through the other man's perspective, to excruciating effect.

Abby had known it had been a bad decision before he had; he'd found out the hard way later on. He shouldn't have had DiNozzo tailing a suspect alone. Damned arrogance to think the rules and reasons for backup didn't apply to him and those he was responsible for.

He'd been too wrapped up in finding his quarry to think about consequences.

Single-mindedness was one of his best qualities. It was also one of his worst.

He'd refused to listen to anyone who suggested they might get him back in anything less than resale condition. Of course, while that had been all well and good for focusing the team, it hadn't stopped _him_ thinking about all the might haves and what ifs.

He had a new nightmare in his collection.

Thankfully, his declaration to Abby _had _been proved right – Tony could take care of himself. He'd gone ahead and done so, working his ass off to get the pair of them to safety instead of sitting around waiting for the rest of them to show.

So it had been a good result in the end. One marine, still alive, if rather the worse for wear. And one DiNozzo, battered and bruised, but on surprisingly good form, for all that.

And yes, in the days afterwards, he'd been subdued and edgy, but that was only to be expected. He _knew_ he'd bounce back – he always did. He _knew_ he'd be alright.

He _had_ to be alright, because the alternative was unacceptable. Because if he wasn't alright, that would be a direct result of his own poor command.

So he'd cut him some slack, and accepted every 'I'm fine' at face value, because it was what he wanted to hear. He'd put the uncharacteristic quietness down to – how had the other man phrased it in Lionel's? A normal human reaction.

He'd avoided him. When he looked at Tony, he saw his own failings.

"_If you forget one time – call in late – don't bother coming back..."_

So he didn't look.

Another mistake. If he'd spent more time on the welfare of his people instead of wallowing in guilt and allowing himself to be fobbed off, he'd have seen that.

He was in charge. It was his job to deal with issues, not cause them.

He wondered if there was a limit to how wrong you could get things. He hoped so, because he had to be getting near it by now.

No doubt if all the people who'd spent half the day telling him he had to talk to Tony had had any idea how it would turn out, they'd have told him to stay the hell away instead. And they'd have been right, too. Ducky or Abby would have been much better at this. A softer touch. More understanding, less blundering around in the dark in hob-nailed boots.

But here he was, and there was no backing out now. Even with only a partial grasp of the situation, he got that walking away now and leaving his friend hanging would be a bad move. Another nail in… _don't finish that thought_.

He was a marine – surely he could see a _conversation_ through?

A comment from the interview with Atlas floated out of his memory, one that had made him smile, if only for the disbelief in the injured marine's voice.

"_Your guy in there – where's he get his nerve from? He's telling me off for not being marine enough!"_

"_That's DiNozzo. Was he wrong?"_

_A rueful, respectful look. "Nope. Apparently the marines he knows don't ever quit. He was very clear on that. Hell of a motivation technique."_

He'd second that last comment.

So. He had a reputation to live up to. Quitting was not an option. Not that it ever had been.

Which left solving.

He needed to look at this with his brains, not his emotions.

No. That wasn't right.

He needed to look at this with his brains _before_ his emotions. No way he'd get anywhere without making some sort of connection – and he wasn't going to get that without being willing to meet him halfway. While he'd be on the more solid end of that limb, he'd be crawling out on it first.

Problem was, he didn't know how to go about making that connection – that was, if he got a chance to try in the first place.

Come on man, you're supposed to be an investigator. Facts first. Use your brain, goddammit.

So what did he know?

He knew he was bewildered. He knew the whole damn mess was his fault. He knew he was angry, and frustrated, and wanted to hit something. Anything.

Anything, but not anyone. He'd told nothing but the truth. He wouldn't have hit him back. He wouldn't have lifted a finger, because he'd have agreed with every blow he landed.

Hell, he'd hit _himself_ if he could.

He'd made way too many mistakes in the past three weeks, and Tony was paying for every last one of them.

All things considered, why wouldn't he want to leave?


	9. Chapter 9

9

He was pulled from a light doze when the cell in his pocket rang, and he cast one eye toward the couch as he answered it. "Jethro! Finally! Hold on one moment…" Ducky slipped out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him. "My apologies. Abby is asleep on the sofa, and I'd really rather not wake her until I must. She was in quite a state, poor girl."

He paused, unsettled by the fact that he hadn't been cut off within half a dozen words. Instead, the response that came across the line was – unexpected. _"How was your evening?"_

Given as Gibbs knew full well that they'd spent it waiting for him to call, this qualified as a delaying tactic. He could not think of a single scenario where that would be a sign of things going well. "Subdued, for the most part. Caitlin only left about half an hour ago. I promised I'd call her as soon as you called me."

"_Did-"_

No. This could go on forever if he let it. "Don't prevaricate, Jethro. It doesn't suit you. Tell, me, how is he?"

This silence had a different tone, and he couldn't stop the worry that was starting to seep into his bones. _"Not good."_

"Oh dear." He rather thought it might be an understatement. He waited a little longer, hoping for more information, but all that was forthcoming was a dark, tense nothing.

Most phone calls from his friend took one of two paths. The work call, which was as short as humanly possible, and twice as abrupt. Or the social call – less common, and distinguishable from the work sort only by the occasional word or phrase that was not strictly essential creeping in.

Calls like this one were rare. They had been few and far between in all the years they'd known each other. The calls they both pretended he didn't make, with the long pauses, and the oblique references and the shortage of words. The calls where he listened to nothing at the other end, and knew to interpret the silence in bold, dark brushstrokes, like 'Bad', and 'Pain', and 'Doubt'.

These were the conversations where he would grit his teeth, and ignore his friend's ill-mannered gruffness, knowing that it was not aimed at the listener, but at Jethro himself, as he struggled with some nameless emotion he couldn't put a lid on quite so easily.

Something had obviously gone very badly wrong.

"Have you made any progress at all?"

"_I… It's hard to tell. He's a mess, Ducky."_

And not anywhere in earshot, apparently. "Where are you?"

"_His apartment. He just ran out of here like the hounds of hell were on his tail."_

"I thought you calmed down before you went to see him?"

Another of those long, loaded pauses, before a careful answer. _"I was calmer."_

"Jethro!"

"_Don't."_

Of course not. Proceeding with extreme caution. "So now what?"

"_Now I find him. Thought I'd let you have an update first."_

Which sounded thoughtful, but had absolutely nothing to do with the reason he'd called. They'd yet to get to that, he was sure. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"_You'd rather I left him to it?"_

"You know I wouldn't. Dammit Jethro, don't twist things!" There was no answer from the other end, and he softened his tone to carry on, knowing the message wouldn't be welcome. "You can't force him to accept your help."

"_I know."_

Damn and double damn. 'Oh dear' was evidently _not_ going to do this justice. It didn't take a genius to determine that unravelling this mess wasn't going to be easy, but he'd firmly believed it could be done.

Unfortunately, with Tony alternating between splendid isolation and lashing out at anyone within range, and Jethro seemingly at a loss either to see the problem or to deal with it, he could fair feel the strains pulling the whole team apart at the seams. No wonder most of NCIS was giving both men a wide berth. He half expected to arrive one morning to find designated safe zones – most likely in the Director's office and Abby's lab.

Oh yes, if you listened to his words, everything was as it should be. But the tone? That was shouting 'I don't know how to fix this' loud and clear. Not a state of mind his friend was used to dealing with, and uncertainty and Jethro were never good bedfellows.

He'd tried to talk to Tony himself a couple of times, to little effect. And he would happily keep trying, but there was only one person likely to be able to get past the man's defences and make him listen.

That, he feared, went both ways. There was only one person who could lift the cloud of guilt that lay on his friend's shoulders, and that wasn't him, either.

He'd been fighting a losing battle against it for the last three weeks. He knew those thought processes well by now, and he knew his lines - however tired he was of having the same conversation on a daily basis without ever getting through one of the thickest skulls he'd encountered.

This was why it had to be Jethro. Because if he wasn't the one to sort this out, then he'd merely add that to the list of things to blame himself for. And God forbid, if Tony did leave, then the rest of them were in for a hellish ride for as long as it took to get some resolution.

"Haven't we already had this conversation? This is _not_ your fault."

It wasn't strictly true. He'd little doubt that somewhere in all this, he'd managed to push the younger man past his tolerances. But that wasn't his conversation to have. Not without knowing more.

In the meantime, he'd settle for pointing out – repeatedly – that currently, he was blaming himself for things he hadn't done wrong. And, come to that, not taking some of those he had done seriously enough. And that neither were of any help to the situation at hand.

"_Tell it to DiNozzo."_

_Hell._ Not good indeed. "What did he say?"

This time the pause was even longer, until he was wondering if there was going to be a response. When it came, it was terser than usual.

"_That I'm just like his father." _The click on the line followed immediately.

So _that_ was it.

No, not good at all.


	10. Chapter 10

10

Gibbs threw the phone down onto the couch, frustration and impatience getting the better of him. After a moment of glaring at it - because it was there, and he _could_ – he rammed a hand through his hair, growled under his breath, and threw himself down next to it.

Ducky was right. They _had_ had that conversation, more than once. But they'd yet to reach common ground. His friend refused to accept that he was to blame. He couldn't understand why the other man felt he'd done nothing on that op to feel guilty about.

Of course,_ that_ would change if he mentioned the comment he'd made to McGee three weeks ago. He'd be furious, at great length.

No change there then. He may have been haunting the morgue on a semi regular basis recently, but he couldn't argue that it had been peaceful for either of them.

Certainly not today, when he'd arrived there straight after leaving the bullpen. Ducky hadn't batted an eyelid in the face of his temper, fully stoked by over an hour with the Director – who'd been more than clear about _where_ he felt responsibility for DiNozzo leaving may lay, and _who_ should be putting it right.

Instead of doing the decent thing and backing off while he prowled, he'd got in his face, dragged an account of events out of him, and then proceeded to take his ear off both for what he'd said, and for walking out on the situation.

To be fair, ten minutes, a lot of shouting, and three broken _I don't care whats_ later – and why the hell did they make them out of glass anyway? - Ducky had conceded that exiting stage left while he calmed down had possibly been the prudent thing to do.

He'd still refused to cut him any slack for outing Tony's plans to the entire building and leaving him to the consequences.

With hindsight, he may have had a point, and if he ever managed to get the team back on an even keel again, he might consider telling him so.

But only if Ducky could adequately explain why it was fine to tear strips off him for a handful of words, when the whole disaster of losing an agent under his command was nothing to get worked up over.

He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. This was ridiculous, and he'd been around this block often enough to know better. Dwelling on blame could and should wait. He had a man out there who needed… well, he wasn't sure what he needed, but he needed it, and _he_ was apparently in a position to do something about it.

So why the hell was he sitting on Tony's sofa, feeling sorry for himself?

Checking in had been the easy option. The self-indulgent one. He wasn't _completely_ immune to needing a friendly ear at times, regardless of what he led everyone else to believe.

Didn't change the fact that it had been a needless waste of time.

He should be trying to sort out what had gone wrong, and what to do about it.

The evidence had been there in full view. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not driving everybody to insanity. What else had he missed while he was busily assuring himself nothing was really amiss?

He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and for the first time since that case had gone to hell in a handcart, really _thought_ about the past three weeks.

It didn't take long.

He didn't waste time being surprised when he finally admitted to himself that the events of three weeks ago were still a major issue, despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise – more so than would be expected, that was.

He spared a few seconds to admire Tony's ability to snow his way though the pysch eval in direct contravention of the facts. But the clothes on the balcony? That admission in the diner - _"I still haven't quite stopped smelling corpse."_? Not the signs of a man at peace with things. Why the hell hadn't he _said _he was having trouble with it?

Because your damn fool comment led him to believe you wouldn't… be interested.

Of course, if he hadn't okayed the surveillance in the first place, it wouldn't have got to that.

He stamped down on the thought ruthlessly once more. Plenty of time for blame and guilt later. There always was.

If your team could see you now, they'd never be intimidated again. Now _concentrate_ _on the job at hand_.

What he should have been taking notice of all along were the fleeting clues that had gotten through before Tony locked them down. The expression of dismay when Kate stalked off after his own insistence that his senior agent be the one to go to interview the harassment witnesses, not her. Usually he'd have been rubbing her nose in it.

Confusion when he brought up that commendation earlier – then hurt and anger before both disappeared behind the 'fine' mask, and he sharply moved the subject on. He'd never mentioned it once. He should have been crowing about it for two weeks straight.

The tension, every time he'd got in his space. When normally he'd have made a joke of it, let the moods roll over him without a thought, quipped, and teased and poked away until it was all Gibbs could do to not give in and lighten up… instead he'd ducked his head and bitten his lip, kept his mouth shut and taken each and every growl to heart.

So he was moodier, and it showed. Ducky was snapping at him. Abby had lost her bounce and was giving him straight answers. Kate was keeping her head down, her nose in a file and her opinions to herself. McGee found any excuse not to get called in.

He hadn't realised how much he relied on Tony to keep it all in balance. Or how easily he did it.

And then there were the other emotions, the familiar ones, there and gone, several times over. Loathing. Disgust. Resentment. All turned _inwards_. They'd been there whenever Abby came up. When he'd tried to get him to leave, and failed. At random times when he sat at his desk, staring into a blank screen.

He was turning on himself. For what? Why? Being angry at them – at _him_ – made sense. But at himself? What on earth did he think he'd done wrong?

That was a question he was going to have to get an answer to. Somehow.

So now we're getting somewhere. What else?

The best form of defence is attack. And every time things had gotten personal, that was when DiNozzo had – well, had mounted an offensive defence. When he'd mentioned his appearance and behaviour in the diner. Every time somebody had brought up his leaving, according to Kate. At pretty much everything he'd said tonight. Accusation, deflection, distraction- _misdirection_.

Anything he thought would work. Pushing them away, time after time. Whenever the topic of conversation stepped a bit too close.

He was getting a very, _very_ nasty feeling about this.

And then the anger, when he'd kept after him. The desperation and tension as he threw his hand off his shoulder as though it burned.

A fuss about nothing, he'd called it.

And when he'd asked, he hadn't said that he wanted to leave. He'd said he _couldn't stay_.

He was definitely running. From what was as yet undecided. The op? His past? His boss? Himself?

Whatever was driving him, it had him scared, that was for sure – full on, don't stop to think, get the hell away scared. Which was bad, but might at least mean that he wasn't the _whole_ problem.

Then again…

_You really are just like him, aren't you?_

That had _hurt_. Didn't take much to work out who "him" had been referring to, and even without tonight's clues, he knew enough to know it wasn't a compliment. That the kid could _think_…

He cut it off abruptly. That train of thought would get him nowhere. He was supposed to be trying to figure out what was happening in Tony's head, not indulging in his own self pity at even greater length.

He'd settle for the fact that he was more than ready to live the rest of his natural life without seeing that kind of reaction again.

Which was all very well, but almost certainly out of his hands. And honestly? He'd sit there and listen to every last bitter detail if it would help.

If Tony needed to work out whatever issues these were on his flesh and his psyche, then he would let him.

If it would fix this.


	11. Chapter 11

11

He ran.

He paid no attention to directions, or surroundings, or anything outside his body. He just ran.

He ran until his legs felt weak, and his lungs were straining, and his vision faltered. And then he ran some more.

He left everything behind him, running until there was no Tony, and no anger, and no pain. Just the movement of the air and the sound of his feet.

And when he finally got to the point where his body couldn't run one more step he stopped, braced his hands on his knees, and heaved in lungfuls of air. There was silence, and it was bliss.

Two minutes. That was all he ever got. Two minutes, until he started thinking again. Until he started _feeling_ again. Two minutes where he could stand tall and proud, where the future was limitless and the past didn't exist.

It passed too quickly, as it always did, and he wished he could run forever.

***

There was something inevitable about the fact that he'd run blind for God knows how long, only to wind up three blocks from St Mary Queen of Martyrs. Unsure as to what else to do, he started to walk the rest of the way.

He concentrated on the ache in his calves and the tightness in his chest in an effort to avoid thinking about what had just happened, or what came next. It was every bit as futile as he'd thought it would be.

At this rate, he'd have so many subjects he was trying to avoid that he'd never find space in there for anything useful.

He kept his head down as he walked, eyes firmly fixed on the ground. There weren't many people about at this hour, and those there were apparently had their own reasons to pay him no mind, much to his relief. He could do without people staring right now. He could do without people, full stop.

The walk to the church was familiar, but not in the slightest bit comforting for that. Familiar wasn't good. It was proof that he'd been here too long. He'd been busy, and content, and drifted past house and into home, past colleagues and into team. Things had been good, and he'd settled, instead of listening to his better instincts and cutting his losses before there was anything of import to count. He'd fooled himself into believing that he could balance everything indefinitely, when he should have been reminding himself that appearances were deceptive, and the good times wouldn't last.

He'd not felt like this when he left Peoria, or Philadelphia, or Baltimore – but they'd not been _familiar_. They had never been more than places, and he'd moved on each time with barely a backward glance. A grin, a wave, a good night out, and on to the next great thing. It had never hurt. There were never regrets. Nobody had come storming into his kitchen and told him that he was getting his life wrong.

So what had gone wrong in DC? What was it about this place that it wouldn't just stay a place, and meant that these people wouldn't remain just people?

He let himself in through the church gate and headed for the door on autopilot, only for reality to kick in after half a dozen steps. He stopped short, staring at his feet.

Was there really a place in a church for a man like him? If Gibbs hadn't said what he did, he would have… would have…

…_done damage._

He didn't want to know what that felt like. He'd never wanted to learn that, or feel it, or know that the urge to destroy could be so thoroughly seductive. He couldn't be anybody he wanted to be and have _that_ inside him. He would simply refuse to be around decent people, rather than allow it the chance to feed.

He'd run to the far side of the world before he'd willingly look inside that part of himself again.

Decision made, he turned away from the door, and headed across the grass, finding the old bench in the shadows by the fence, and settling down on it.

Close by, but on the outside. _How apt_.

He'd been one small, tiny step away from giving in to the anger. That was unforgivable. If Gibbs hadn't stopped him, it would have snapped, and the monster would have gotten out, and then there would be no hope at all, because there would never be an ok again.

Where was his control? He was better than that, surely? He had to be better than that, or else he wasn't who he thought he was, and he never had been. And where would that leave him? _Who_ would that leave him?

No question. That would leave him a DiNozzo, in _every_ sense of the word. Which was unacceptable.

He wanted to go inside, to sit in silence, surrounded by solid, unchanging stone and elegant beauty, but he knew now that he would never belong there, either; and he knew why. That streak of pure black had no place among the good, or even the aspiring. He was compromised. _Spoiled_.

He wanted to run again, and forget, but he knew that it wouldn't work, because his muscles could only take so much; and anyway, as soon as he stopped, he'd remember again, and be no better off than he was now.

He wanted to go home, but he didn't know where that was anymore.

He dropped his head into his hands, and wondered again how things had gotten this bad. It had all seemed so simple, once. He didn't fit here, so he'd move on. He'd done it before, effortlessly. So why not this time?

Because he'd let himself care, that was why not. Because he'd had enough of a taste of glorious possibility to keep him coming back, wanting more. He'd lost his toughness, somewhere along the way; that ability he'd always had, to keep the world at arms length. Instead he'd dropped his guard, and undermined his own defences. Never put him in charge of an army. He'd be a disaster.

He thought yet again about going into the church, knowing that he'd been able to find some measure of peace there before, but he still couldn't bring himself to do it. Leaving aside the fact that he didn't deserve the comfort in any case, he didn't think he could handle Father O'Reilly's gentle company right now. He was even less sure if he could allow that hand on his neck without losing another piece of himself, and he didn't have many left to bargain with.

The touch made his throat hurt, and his eyes ache, and he didn't trust himself not to throw it back off, probably with more aggression than was strictly necessary.

When had he learnt that touch was to be feared? He hadn't felt like that until recently, had he?

Had he?

Or had he felt like that all along, and just forgotten, like he'd apparently forgotten everything else that mattered?

He knew it was his own damn fault for shouting at her, but without Abby's hugs, it felt like such a long time since anybody had _wanted_ to touch him. Anybody that wasn't Father O'Reilly, whose touch was sure, and firm, and never quite as comforting as it was meant to be. But that wasn't his problem – it was Tony's. Because there was nothing wrong with the touch; it was that the man it was laid on wasn't worthy.

And that one, brief touch from Gibbs, earlier, that he'd not seen coming, and had been needed, and hated, and way too much for him to handle.

Who would touch him now? Touch _him_? Nobody, that was who. And that was best for all concerned. He was tainted. And he couldn't allow that to spread to anyone else. Not for the sake of indulging his own weakness.

But he missed Abby and her hugs. It wasn't her fault. It was his, for not appreciating what he had when it was there.

_You ungrateful little idiot! Now look what you did!_

The fact that he only had himself to blame didn't stop him from wishing he could wake up tomorrow morning, and find the last three weeks had never happened. Then he'd still have Abby's hugs, and Kate's steadfast assurance, and McGee to tease and Ducky's chocolate bribery.

And Gibbs to learn from, and remind him what was right, and what was wrong, and which side of it he was supposed to be on.

It was a fantasy, no more, as he wasn't good enough to have any of them. He'd been born wrong, somehow, and in all these years had never managed to work out how to put himself right again.

And Gibbs knew, now. He'd seen it for himself. He knew what hid inside Tony, and there was no going back from that. On some level he'd known he wouldn't be able to hide it from him forever - that someday his boss would actually look, and then he'd see, and then it would be over.

In a way, it was a relief to have finally hit that line. It gave him something solid. He could position himself in relation to it. Measure the wrongness and the bad against people's reactions.

Reactions? Gibbs was going to _kill_ him for losing it like that. He'd…

No. He wouldn't. Now Gibbs had seen _that_, there'd be no more hounding him. He'd wash his hands of him for sure. Was probably already on his way home, glad of the easy out.

He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands, feeling closer to giving up than at any other point of the last three weeks. He didn't know how he was going to face him in the morning. Couldn't see where to find the reserves that would let him look the man in the eye and not recoil from the disgust and disappointment looking back at him.

Why hadn't he known better? Why hadn't he left before things could get to here?

Why on earth had he not had the common sense to step back and see what he was doing, realise that he liked these people, and get the hell out before he could drag them down with him?

Because he was born selfish, that's why. Just as his father had said. He'd wanted things he had no right to, and now he was paying for it, a hundred times over, in guilt, and doubt, and shame.


	12. Chapter 12

12

After sitting silently in the shadows for far too long – as proven by the rapidly stiffening muscles in his legs - Tony was becoming very aware of the chill in the air. It was cold enough to cut straight through his sweat saturated shirt and hair, leaving him shivering intermittently. That was the downside to abruptly racing out of your own apartment. No jacket.

Fuck. No keys, either. Hadn't even thought.

He sat for a moment, looking that revelation up and down. Whatever else he was failing at, he could at least manage to use his head, even when he didn't really want to face the results. The lack of keys wasn't an issue. Why? Because Gibbs was no fool, and would have noticed. Getting back in would be no problem.

No, the problem was what he would find there. It was a toss up. Most likely, Gibbs would have left straight after his own departure, and he would get back to find the door unlocked, and the apartment empty.

He _hoped_ he'd find it empty. He had no weapon on him either (as if he hadn't already screwed up enough for one lifetime), and the thought of walking in, unarmed, to an unsecured area sent a thread of cold through the pit of his stomach that left the attempts of the night air standing.

He knew it was irrational. He was well aware that he had walked into far more dangerous situations, far more often. He was fully confident he could do so again, any time he liked.

Providing he was armed, and prepared, and had backup.

But this was his home. It should be safe. A person should be able to walk into these places without anything untoward happening.

_Should_.

That was, until you got blindsided by someone you'd dismissed as irrelevant, and even though you'd had a drink in a bar a thousand times, the thousand and first left you drowning in trouble.

It would be safe. He knew, logically, that there was no threatening stranger haunting his apartment, waiting for him to come back. No waitress, carrying a drink that was more than it pretended to be. He _knew_ it. Absolutely. One hundred percent.

But apparently all the certainty in the world couldn't stop his body tensing up, and his breathing quickening, and the nerves in his spine running amok again at the thought of going back into the apartment when it had been left open and empty.

This was _ridiculous_. He was actually scared of _nothing_.

Fine. Whatever. Dwelling on it wasn't going to help, regardless.

He firmly shut down that avenue of thought, mentally added it to the prohibited list, and moved on to the alternative. And if his body didn't quite get the message, then he wasn't listening to it.

Which was easy, because the alternative was worse. Much worse. Behind door two, the apartment would definitely not be empty. No, it would be occupied by his boss - still there, forced to wait for him until he chose to show, and getting more annoyed by the minute.

He couldn't face him again tonight. He _couldn't_. The thought alone made him feel ill. Even if Gibbs just _looked _at him, like he did, and then left, he'd be hard pressed to keep up appearances. And that was the _best_ option.

What a mess. What an utter, goddamn, stupid mess. Either way he was going to have to go back sooner or later. The longer he left it, the worse the situation would get.

He didn't move though, because the yard was quiet, and still and almost as good as the church itself. And at this stage, worse was definitely a relative word, and one that didn't seem to have much meaning in the face of how things were already.

He shivered again, and stared at the grass, and figured he'd better set about psyching himself up to move. He couldn't sit here forever, no matter how calm and peaceful it was. That would be insane.

Of course, sitting freezing his ass off alone in a churchyard in the middle of the night was probably not the best recommendation for his current mental state, either.

Doing something could wait though. First things first – he was in no state right now to even think about moving. Instead, he leant a bit further forwards, and concentrated on nothing but long shallow breaths, waiting for the nausea to pass once more.

It took a little time, but eventually he felt better, although the shivering was getting more frequent. Still, it was a small price to pay for being able to avoid having to explain any of this to Gibbs.

"Here."

He jumped a mile, heart hammering, even as he recognised the voice, and was furious with himself for not having better control. Not that it would make much difference. The man was supernatural. It wasn't _fair_.

He couldn't bring himself to look up, knowing if he made eye contact all his determination and reason would fly straight out of the window and he'd be on the ropes in seconds. He kept his eyes firmly on the grass, directing his question to his toes.

"What are you doing here?"

"Finding you." A brief pause. "_Here_."

More demanding the second time, in that tone that made it clear that this was your last chance to see reason, and anything after it was your own damn fault. He raised his head just far enough to see the edge of the jacket that was dangling in front of him. After a moment of indecision, he stretched out his hand and took it, as grateful for something to do as for the chance to warm up. He shrugged it on, hearing the jangle of keys as he did so, and resenting that the sound made something in his throat uncurl, just a little.

"Locked up before I came looking for you."

He raised his eyes a bit further, just enough to see if there was any movement. There wasn't, and he breathed easier, his fight or flight instinct beginning to settle again.

"How d'you find me?"

"You told Kate you'd been coming here. Seemed a likely place to look."

"I didn't think she believed me."

"She didn't. You'd really have said it if you thought she would?"

Well - that was a reasonable question. He offered a small shrug. "Probably not." Then he actually considered the meaning behind it. "_You_ believed me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Felt right."

Fair enough. Couldn't argue with that.

***

Gibbs watched as the top of Tony's head ducked once, before another shiver raced through him. He'd still not looked him in the eye. Or anywhere above the knee. That wasn't a good sign.

He'd nearly missed him, only his gut prodding him to look around outside before he headed in. Then he'd spotted the lone figure on the bench, arms tightly wrapped around his torso, and berated himself again for letting things get so bad.

Tony looked just as alone as he did earlier. Desolate. _Afraid_.

He'd lay odds that even if the younger man was aware of the first two, he had no idea of the last. He'd hate it if he did. Hate showing it.

Hate him seeing it.

Wasn't gonna mention it though. Needed to be careful here. Find a way to pull him back, not send him haring off in another direction. That would be a disaster.

A _bigger_ disaster.

This had gone way past guilt and blame and recrimination. If he couldn't find a way to get through to him, then they were going to lose him. And not just to Boston.

"You ready to go home? Or d'you need more time?"

No response, but for a stiffening of the shoulders, only interrupted by yet another shiver. Kid was _freezing_.

Couldn't do anything about that now. Next step was in Tony's hands. He'd seen people in this state before, and it was always the same. Like dealing with a wild animal. You approach, and they'd attack, or they'd run. Had to wait until they were desperate enough to come to you despite the fear.

Except if he wasn't desperate enough by now, Gibbs really didn't want to sit by and watch what it took to get to that point.

"Fine. I'll be by the gate when you're ready."

Still no response, and he moved away silently, hoping that Tony would come round before he got much colder.

***

Now what? _Now what?_ He darted a quick glance over towards the gate. Gibbs was right where he'd said he'd be, looking out across the street, away from him. His back was still, and silent, and formidable.

Back be damned. There was no chance he could get past his radar. He wasn't quite silent enough. Not quite fast enough. Not even remotely brave enough.

Not that it mattered. Even if he had been able to disappear into the night for a second time, no doubt his boss would simply keep pulling the same appearing trick again and again, until even Tony's brain could manage to get a clue and give in.

Plan B? Didn't exist. His only other option was to front up and see what he wanted. Easy enough, right?

Get up.

Walk over there.

Ask him.

He was reasonably certain he could manage the first part, but the rest of it was unfathomable. Quite simply, it went against every ounce of self preservation he had. He was absolutely certain that he couldn't survive much more of this without _something_ breaking, and wasn't sure whether he was more concerned that it might be his _own_ temper, or his boss's.

For God's sake! Why was he still thinking about this? There was no choice. Gibbs wasn't going to _let_ him pull that stunt twice. It was painfully clear that he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon. What had he said back at the apartment?

_I'm not going anywhere. We're not done here._

He'd thought they had been. He'd thought – he'd _known_ - that once Gibbs had seen through him to what hid inside, to the weakness, the badness, the pure, pure wrong, that they would be done. That he'd be left alone to pack his things and head out of town as soon as he could – encouraged to, even.

It had never once crossed his mind that he might be wrong. That even when his boss had seen all that, he might still not be done with him. That he could want him to give up _more_.

How could he, when there wasn't anything more to give?

He pulled in another deep breath, and let it out as slowly as he could. He was missing the point. Again. He had _no choice_. If he decided to sit here for a week, his boss would still be propped up by that gate, waiting for him to back down.

***

It took nearly half an hour, but eventually the waiting paid off, and the younger man ghosted up silently, head bowed, shoulders tense.

Looked like it had taken guts.

He stayed quiet, and waited some more, as DiNozzo hovered off his left shoulder. A few more minutes and he got his reward.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why find me?"

Make or break time. One wrong word here, and it would be back to square one. Or worse. "Because I'm not about to give up on you just because you want me to, DiNozzo. That's not how it works."

"How what works?"

"Having friends."


	13. Chapter 13

13

They walked back in silence, Tony trailing along beside a Gibbs who seemed content to just let him be. The anger had disappeared back into the dark crevice it came from; the panic was distant, and muted, and under his control again. At least for as long as they ambled along in clean night air and undemanding silence.

The muscles in his legs protested with every step, but he didn't mind that. It gave him something ordinary to concentrate on. Without that, he'd have to look Gibbs' last comment full in the eye, and he wasn't ready for that. Just thinking about it obliquely was more than enough. So it pottered around the edges of his thoughts, occasionally catching at his attention. Just there.

He'd made it sound so solid. Certain. _Final_. Enough so that he'd ended up trotting along home without actually engaging in the decision, at any rate.

Then again, that might have been the point.

To be fair, it did seem like a very convoluted way of getting him in line when the man could have just marched up to him, made a couple of pointed growls and glared him out with a lot less hanging around.

He was at a loss. None of this was making any sense. Although really, why should it when nothing else about his life did recently?

He could feel his hard won equilibrium beginning to falter again, and put the comment away for consideration at a later time, when he was alone and could examine it at leisure. He wanted to enjoy the peace for now. Because it couldn't last; no doubt once they got back to the apartment the verbal fencing would start up again, as his boss started chasing after answers he didn't have and couldn't give, and had no intentions of letting go of in any case.

Right. Who did he think he was fooling? If Gibbs chose to carry on pushing, he really didn't think he could find any more energy to keep fighting him off. He'd lost it all somewhere, in the running, or in the silence, and he felt utterly exhausted. Shattered, that was the word.

He was shattered.

***

The calm lasted right up until they got back to the apartment. Gibbs unlocked and opened up, leading the way. After three steps, he turned back when there was no movement behind him.

"Tony?"

_I can't. _Not in there. Not where he'd…

He could feel the strangest echo of that all-consuming flame of anger, like it was there, looking at him, but just out of reach. Like if he tried, he could reach out, and grasp it and make it part of him again. He could use it as a shield against the doubts and the hurt. He could drown them all in a sea of endless red, of fire and blood and…

"DiNozzo! Hyperventilating will not help!"

Of course it wouldn't, but it didn't seem to be quite that easy to get the message through. Instead he just stared back at the older man through the doorframe, and realised that at some point while he was off in a violent fantasy land, his body had shot out of control again. It was a feeling he loathed, and it was happening altogether too often. Three times, tonight? More? He'd stopped counting. Too close to reality.

He could feel the sweat rolling down his spine, and the discomfort in his chest. Could hear his own dragging, rasping breaths, like something out of a horror movie. Dizziness was on the rise, and oh _God_, he couldn't breathe, couldn't get air, couldn't...

Yes you _can_, Tony. Done this before. Just don't think about it. Think about something else. Let it pass. It _will_ pass. It always passes.

Hadn't had a panic attack in _years_. Not since…

Actually, probably as well not to go there right now. It wasn't exactly going to help.

He didn't resist at all when a pair of large hands took his shoulders and moved him through the problem door and into the apartment. Distantly he could hear the murmur of a voice, and he realised Gibbs was still talking to him, even if he hadn't caught the words.

A few moments later he was abruptly manhandled onto the couch, and his head pressed between his knees.

"Breathe. That's an order."

He wanted to complain, point out that it didn't work like that, and demand to know if the other man believed that the world would stop spinning if he told it to, but completely against all sense, his body had turned traitor and was obeying anyway.

Perversely, that managed to both make him feel better and piss him off in equal measures.

He heard feet retreating, and allowed himself to wallow in the nothingness for a few minutes. He carefully kept his mind blank, knowing from experience that if he concentrated on the physical, he'd only make things worse. Instead, he let himself drift along on a cloud of nothingness.

It was well on the way to being over when the footsteps returned, accompanied by more coffee smells, and he reluctantly floated back down again.

"Don't even think about moving."

How did he _know_? He was distracted from the question by a mug appearing in his vision, and he took it without thought. Then he breathed in, smelt chocolate and felt the knots in his spine and his stomach give way just a little more.

Nevertheless, he made sure to wait long enough to prove that he was listening, before sitting up and drinking.

He could feel the warmth seeping in from both the mug and the drink, and it was only then that he realised just how cold he'd gotten. He held on a little tighter and took a few deeper breaths, trying to absorb the sweetness through air alone; and was very glad to find that everything seemed to be back on track again.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

***

They sat there for a while, until the last notes of the attack were long gone, the shivering had all but stopped, and the peace was hovering almost within touching distance again. Then Gibbs broke the silence.

"Why Boston?"

There was neither inflection or accusation, just question.

"Why not?" He got an impatient look for that, and shrugged his shoulders. "Seriously. Why not?"

"You just stuck your finger on a map?"

"No. I made a few calls, sent a couple of applications, and waited to see if there were any bites."

"You thought you'd hang a CV like yours out there and there'd be no interest?"

"Didn't know."

He stared at him for a moment, before carrying on. "So, if it wasn't about going to Boston…"

He sighed, knowing that Gibbs wouldn't give up until he'd got some answers. "It was about leaving DC."

"You _are_ running."

Did he have to sound so… so… so _Gibbs_ about it? "If you want to look at it like that."

"I don't know how to look at it. You won't tell me."

Apparently the quiet portion of the evening was over. Shame. He'd been as near to relaxed as he could remember recently. He wasn't ready to commence battle yet.

"Do we have to start this again?"

Blue eyes looked at him with something frighteningly close to sympathy. "Yes."

Helpful. Two could play that game. "_Why_?"

"Because this isn't about your _job_, Tony. Its about _you_. I meant what I said – I'm not gonna give up on you. No matter what."

He didn't want to hear that. He couldn't even process it, much less deal with it, so he chose to ignore it.

"I wasn't giving you a say."

"Having one anyway."

"Got that."

He found himself being studied yet again, and he had to fight not to squirm like a kid under the direct gaze. He was about ready to scream before Gibbs spoke.

"Come on, Tony. Give me a chance here."

What was it about the man that made him completely impervious to the fact that Tony had no intention of rolling over and exposing his weaknesses just because Gibbs thought he should? Three weeks ago, maybe. But now?

"_Forget it McGee. He's still alive."_

Friends? He could tell Gibbs had meant it. Didn't change the fact that apparently they had widely differing definitions of the word.

Did he have friends? He'd thought so.

No. Not exactly. He'd wanted it to _be_ so. He'd felt like he was on the inside for a change, and he'd been stupid enough to let his guard down. Taken a leap of faith instead of working from the evidence. Trusted them; opened up to other people for the first time in a long time. He'd offered that chance, and it hadn't been easy. And it wasn't taken. It wasn't wanted. _He_ wasn't wanted.

And now he wasn't being sufficiently co-operative?

"A chance? A chance to what? A chance to tell me what a mess I'm making of my own life? A chance to remind me I'm not good enough for your team? A chance to keep me running too and fro on hot coals until you decide I've outlived my usefulness and can kick me out on your own terms? His voice had gotten louder as he gave rein to his frustration, and the other man didn't interrupt, instead dropping his gaze to the floor, where it stayed.

He paused for a moment, the flood of words temporarily stopped by the fact he quite simply couldn't think of anything to say that could make the slightest dent in that damned self-assurance.

He waited for the comeback, the put down, the anger, but none was forthcoming. Instead, his boss just sat there, leaning his forearms on his knees, staring at the carpet.

No way was he going to get away with ignoring whatever he didn't feel like answering if Tony had anything to do with it. "For fuck's sake, boss! Quit with the dancing and give me the bottom line. Just what exactly _is_ it you want from me?"

There was still no response, and he felt a small stir of unease at Gibbs refusing to behave like Gibbs. How he was supposed to keep on top of things if people insisted on going off script, he didn't know.

Still, at least the subject was over. He got up to find the remote for the CD before the silence got oppressive, and as a result, damn near missed the one word answer he got.

"Absolution."


	14. Chapter 14

14

"What?"

There was a moment of absolute silence before he got any response, and when it came it was in a voice strained, and quiet, and flat. More than that, even; the raw note he'd caught during their stand off earlier in the evening was back, ringing through every word with a rare clarity.

"I know. _I know_. But you asked, and you deserve an answer."

"_What?_" It came out a little squeaky, which would have been a problem but for the fact that it finally drew the other man's head up from the carpet. A pair of veiled eyes that were intending to show absolutely nothing, and not quite achieving it.

"I'm not claiming to have earned it. I know you've no reason to give it. But you wanted to know what I want. There's your answer."

He rather had the impression that he'd missed something. Either that or he'd run so hard he hit a parallel universe.

And it sat there between them, as he stared at Gibbs, and Gibbs stared at the carpet, and eventually it dawned on him that he was going to have to speak first.

"Ok. Ok. Can we just… just stop a second? And back up a bit? You lost me, boss."

"Damn right I did. And look where it got you."

He knew he'd already done it to death, but there really was only one answer to that.

"_What?_"

"I said-"

"No. I mean, I heard what you said. I just… I mean…" This was going nowhere. He put the brakes on, took a breath, and started again. "Look – I have less than no idea what you're talking about."

Gibbs looked up again, disbelief and a nameless pain written clear across his expression. "Three weeks ago, I sent you out to tail a suspect. Nearly got you killed. Did get you…" he waved a hand vaguely between them. "…here."

And he'd thought things weren't making any sense before? This conversation was putting a whole new perspective on the concept.

"That wasn't _your_ fault."

"Well it sure as hell wasn't _yours_."

"Wasn't it? If I hadn't gone and gotten myself dr…drugged," he stumbled over the word, and cursed internally. Try again. "If I hadn't let her drug me – "

"_Let_ her drug you? What, you saw her slip it in and drank it anyway? That's crap. She took advantage of the situation I handed her, end of. Nothing you could have done about it."

The words hit hard at a spot he'd spent three weeks trying with all his might to pretend wasn't there, and he swallowed hard, and bit his lip to keep his focus. But he was tired, and worn, and too slow to hide it, and Gibbs expression changed from certainty to concern in a flash.

"Tony?"

He shook his head, and bit down harder, certain that if he opened his mouth something vital would get away that he'd never chase down again. After a couple of minutes, he felt grounded enough to speak again, although he could taste the slightest hint of blood.

"Where were we?"

For a moment, he thought his boss was going to call him on it, and then it passed.

"Beating around the bush."

Well that sounded accurate enough. Not that there was much actual beating going on. Gibbs was back to staring at the floor, unmoving, and he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

This silence was loaded, and threatening, and he wondered about the best way to dictate where this conversation would go. More to the point, where it _wouldn't_. Because if he didn't keep a firm eye on it, he had the distinct impression that things could get out of hand very quickly indeed.

"You don't have to leave, DiNozzo. We can fix this."

"Never had you down for the eternal optimist."

"Facts, Tony. Just facts."

Gibbs sounded almost as tired as he felt, and he felt a sudden, unexpectedly vicious stab of pleasure that he had finally managed to ruffle the other man's composure, however slightly.

The feeling only lasted a few seconds, before being swallowed up by irritation. He'd had it with facts, and being reasonable, and trying to do this like an adult. He wanted to cry, and throw things, and shout about how unfair it was.

But that wasn't proper behaviour, was it? A DiNozzo would _never_ stoop so low. Not one worth the name, anyway.

And certainly not when he had an audience. After all, if you didn't have your public image to hide behind, what did you have? What could _possibly_ be worth more than that?

He stamped firmly on the irritation, and decided to give reason another shot.

"It's not fixable."

"I don't believe that. _Won't_ believe that."

"I don't care what you believe. This…"

He faltered again, not really wanting to go another word further. _Just spit it out, Tony_. Make him see, once and for all. Find the words to make him understand. You hit him right, and he'll back off for good.

"… This has been broken for a lot longer than I've known _you_. Whatever brilliant plan you think you've got, you can forget it. Decision's made. Train's left. Point of no return is way, _way_ back there."

"No plan. I just… I _know_ we can get past this. Just let me help."

He was kidding, right? Come _on_. He _had _to be kidding.

"Let you _help_? Where was your damn help when I needed it, huh?"

For a moment, he couldn't believe he'd said it. He hadn't actually intended to. But there it was. And it felt so damn good to finally hear it out loud, and see the look on Gibbs' face, even if he wasn't answering, and he decided that if the other man wanted to know so badly, well…

…well, why not tell him?

"Come on then! Let's hear it! I was drugged, I wastrapped, I was chased through the sewers by an insane killer, and I was damn near shot! Where were you when I needed to hear that it was ok to be afraid? Where were you when I needed to know I wasn't alone? Where were you when the world was upside down, and I didn't know who I was anymore, and I needed to know there was someone I could rely on? _Where were you_?"

He was right up in Gibbs' face now, biting off the words one at a time, and that small, suicidal area of his brain was telling him there'd be no going back from this one. He neither listened to it, nor cared.

Gibbs looked stricken.

"Where were you, Special Agent Gibbs?"

"I…" the words died in the other man's throat.

"Boss? Where were you?"

The grey head shook silently, and he'd more than had enough.

"I'll tell you where you were, shall I? You were telling McGee that you were sorry I wasn't dead."


	15. Chapter 15

15

A long silence came trailing in the wake of his outburst, another one of those where the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, and the running commentary in the back of his mind which was currently suggesting that he might, possibly, be just a _little_ unstable right now.

He'd certainly left all common sense behind somewhere. He was still right up in the other man's face, staring him out, waiting for he didn't know what. Hands balled into fists. Tension turning his shoulders to solid iron, and putting all his overwrought, nerves on full alert. Breathing a little too hard. Exertion? Maybe. Or maybe the air had run away and hidden. He wouldn't blame it. The atmosphere was charged so high he'd swear he could hear the crackling.

Gibbs response, when it came, dropped like a stone into the room.

"You want me to leave?"

"Do I…?" he tailed off into incredulity, then tried again. "I wanted you to leave hours ago, and you refused. You wanted to _talk_. So here I am, talking, and _now_ you want out?"

"No!" It was a single word explosion, and he watched in fascination as Gibbs stopped hard and visibly reined himself back in before carrying on. He'd never seen that before. "_I _want to stay right here, and sort this out. What I asked was do _you_ want me to leave? Because I don't think even I could be selfish enough to force my company down your throat if it's only going to make things worse than I already have."

Worse? Things could hurt _worse_? "You really think that's possible?" He considered the comment again, and impossibly, his temper rose higher. "You think I'm so close to the edge that _you_ could push me over?"

If they hadn't been nose to nose, he'd have missed the flinch when he spat that _you_ out. He was glad he didn't, smiling in satisfaction at the direct hit, and then wondering why the expression felt so foreign.

After a moment, Gibbs shook his head, and Tony was unsure whether it was a no, or an indication that the other man had no more idea what to do next than he did. He waited for the satisfaction at the possibility that he'd finally knocked him off balance, only to be blindsided by a wave of … of… _emotional vertigo_, for want of a better expression.

He took long enough regaining his balance that Gibbs got in first.

"I'm sorry."

That settled it. Definitely a parallel universe, and one where somewhere along the line he'd damaged his hearing, probably in that damn blast. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry."

"No, no. No. That's not right. You don't apologise. Ever. It's-"

"-A sign of weakness. Yeah. I'm thinking I can admit to one of those, this once."

"You can?"

That got him a bleak, bitter look that he had no idea what to do with.

"That comment to McGee… It was a joke, Tony. A stupid, badly thought through joke that backfired in spectacular fashion. I never thought you'd think I _meant _it."

"You never… oh, that is _unbelievable_! Why damn well say it in the first place?"

"Because I don't handle emotions very well. I got three ex-wives'll back that one up. Hell!" He watched as the other man pinched his brow, scrubbed a hand through his hair and took a long gulp of coffee. "By the time we got to you, every last one of us was about at the end of our tether. You'd been missing for hours, with God knows what happening to you, and we had nothing. _Nothing_."

The last word was almost an afterthought, an echo of loss and resignation muttered directly into the mug, but it resonated through the room as his boss lapsed into quiet again. Tony found himself caught between not wanting to hear another word, and needing to know every last detail. But before he could make up his mind to say stop or carry on, Gibbs picked back up again.

"When you rang in… when the line went dead…" He hesitated, stared hard at the coffee and clenched his jaw. "For a while there we all thought the only thing we'd find would be your corpse. If we were lucky."

He stopped again, just in time for that little voice to tell Tony that he should be feeling compassion, not a perverse pleasure in someone else's discomfort. He was still happily ignoring it.

"Then when we finally did find you, you were apparently handling the whole disaster better than any of the rest of us. That damn comment – I don't know if I was trying to lighten the mood, or pay you back for bouncing back like nothing had happened when we'd all been scared out of our minds. Never got that it was an act."

"Didn't work so well, whatever it was." He could hear his own voice, the clipped delivery, the icicles hanging off every syllable, and knew it well. He hated himself for having that voice in him somewhere.

"You pushed me into saying something I didn't want to say. I pushed back." He paused. "You can see where I get the divorces from."

"Yeah. I bet the whole 'pull the rug out from under 'em' went down a treat."

The conversation drifted back into nothing again. Gibbs had fixed the rapidly emptying mug with a fierce stare that would have had any suspect talking within thirty seconds, and Tony found himself with no inclination to do anything to ease the atmosphere. Eventually it was the older man who broke the standoff.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Since when did you wait for permission?"

He wasn't even surprised when Gibbs ignored the dig, instead pressing on with a characteristic determination to get what he wanted. "If I hadn't said that, would things have gotten this bad?"

Damn. That was a question that _deserved _a request for permission. He thought about it for a while, but it didn't help at all.

"I don't know. Maybe not."

"Would you still be leaving?"

"I… Possibly. Or not. I honestly don't know." And it wasn't a kindness. He'd thought he was thinking clearly all along, but tonight had been one eye opener after another, and he really wasn't sure of anything anymore, let alone what he might have done three weeks ago if door A hadn't slammed in his face.

He just knew that he was tired, and lost, and didn't want to run anymore. But he didn't know how to stop, or where to find safety.

Letting loose at Gibbs had felt incredibly good, but it carried its own price. Because while every word he'd said had been true, it wasn't the full story. He was still scared, and lonely, and utterly ashamed of feeling either when he should have left that kind of weakness behind years ago

The world still didn't make sense. He still couldn't tell right from wrong. He still didn't know who he was – although he was pretty certain he didn't like himself too much, whoever he turned out to be.

And he still had nothing solid to hang on to except the threads of a Tony DiNozzo that he'd all but forgotten how to be.

"I…"

Gibbs' voice interrupted his ruminations but the sentence died off. Tony watched the seconds change on the clock, idly wondering if the thread would get picked up again if he waited long enough.

"I don't know how to do this. What to say. How to…" It faded out again, and he offered no response, content to watch him flounder. "I screwed up. I let you down. I'm _sorry_."

Tony looked up again, and met those eyes, and this time there was nothing hidden. He found himself taken aback by the sheer depth of the pain and regret he could see there.

He knew that look. He should. It kept staring at him in mirrors, when he forgot he shouldn't catch his _own_ eye.

And suddenly, things snapped into clarity. _He_ was in control of this, not Gibbs. He had a choice. He could make it all better.

…Or he could make it worse. Payback. _Vengeance_. He could show the other man _exactly_ how it felt, in glorious detail. The thought was incredibly tempting. Why shouldn't he get a share? Everyone had a breaking point, right? Odds were he'd never see Gibbs closer to his, and he could show him the way.

"Did I cause this?"

It was a wretched, terrible, _honest_ question, and he knew without asking that Gibbs would wait forever for an answer. Knew he'd accept whatever Tony said at face value. Trusted him to tell the truth, regardless of its effect. Would let him say nothing, and leave him hanging, without another word.

_Trust is no more than another weapon. Never let anybody get close enough to use it against you._

Something inside shifted, and twisted, and settled.

He blinked once, and shook his head, slowly. "No." And that, _that_ was his own voice.

Gibbs let out a long, slow breath, nodded once, and wearily sank his head back into his hands.

Not gonna be that easy boss. You wanted an answer? Have the full one.

"No. You didn't cause it. You just amplified it. You… you shoved me in a room alone with it, and locked the door, and left me to it."

The top of the head bobbed, and the voice, shorn of all its irascibility and left forlorn and oddly fragile, floated out. "I'm sorry."

"I know."


	16. Chapter 16

16

He wasn't honestly sure what he would have done if Tony had said yes.

Thank _God_ he hadn't.

Not that what he had said was any easier to hear, but it didn't matter. He owed it to him to listen.

Be paying this debt for a long time to come, Jethro. If you're allowed to.

Never leave a man behind? Made a hash of that, hadn't he? Didn't matter if you got the body out, if you left the mind trapped God knows where.

He'd let him down in_ style_.

Ducky had been right all along. He'd been way too busy beating himself up over what he'd done, and completely forgotten to notice what he was doing.

So wrapped up in his own guilt that he didn't stop to use his brains. Self-indulgent time-wasting, the lot of it. He'd thought he had plenty to feel guilty about. He didn't have a _clue_.

He could have stopped this. Realised it was all bravado and pushed him to deal with it then and there. Should have understood it had to be him. Because all he'd had to do was pull his head out of his ass and _think_, and he'd have known.

Who else would DiNozzo have looked to, really? Without any family worth the name?

Not Kate or McGee. Tony didn't know either of them well enough to show his hand yet. However close they might be, they weren't close in that way. And all Kate's teasing over the Voss case would stop him like nothing else. He'd never willingly hand her this. Not so soon.

As for McGee, no way was he going to step up into DiNozzo's personal space and start pushing buttons. He'd faint on the spot.

He'd assumed Abby would pick up. But it had always been in his own nature to protect her whenever he could, and Tony had stepped straight into those footsteps almost as soon as he arrived – however much she'd tear them apart if she ever caught them doing it. And then_ something_ had happened. He didn't know what, because she didn't understand, and Tony clammed right up with no more than a bereft look of regret whenever it was mentioned.

And it couldn't be Ducky, because he had his hands full stopping an overly self-absorbed marine from bringing everything down round his ears. Because Ducky had had to make a choice between the two of them, and he'd bulled his way in and demanded attention, while Tony had slinked away to lick his wounds. Because Ducky had known what was driving him, but could only guess at what was driving Tony. Because Ducky had known him through a lot of ups and downs, and Tony had been there less than three years.

No, it had had to be him. Tony listened to him. Couldn't run him in circles the way he did everyone else. Had known it before he hired him. Known if he brought the younger man into NCIS, then he'd be _his_ responsibility. Had looked that idea in the eye, and decided it was fine with him.

Liked it, to be honest.

And now they'd ended up here. With Tony adrift in a sea of anger, hurt and fear, and him watching and listening and not allowed to help, because he'd burnt that bridge with his own hands before he even looked at the other side.

Every word of this hurt. Every word should. Because the worst comment was the one Tony hadn't made.

_You shouldn't have had to be told._

Ducky would be relieved to hear he'd stopped with the self-punishment. No point in it. Nothing he could do to himself could be worse than this. Looking on as the kid tore himself down from the inside, piece by piece. And all because the people who should have been standing between him and his demons had shirked their responsibility.

Tony was right – he was just like his father. And not in a good way.

He'd already taken his eye off the ball once and turned something horrible into a full blown catastrophe. Ignored what he didn't want to deal with, confident everyone would work it out around him. He'd not do it again.

Three years. He'd thought the foundations were solid. Never considered that Tony might not agree. _Three years_, and his friend felt he couldn't talk to him. To anyone.

Friend? Really? Could you claim that when the other party didn't know?

Prevarication, Jethro. None of this was Tony's fault. He'd told no more than the truth – when that op went to hell, he'd needed reassurance, and got a slap in the face instead. Found himself surrounded by colleagues, when he needed family. Needed them to be the family, because he didn't have his own to turn to.

As boss, he knew his agent. Knew he could cope with a messy situation. Had done so before. And he'd been right. Didn't have any complaints about the work.

He'd forgotten about _Tony_. Didn't see the man for the job.

First go round, he'd put his own needs first. This time was different. He had to focus on getting the other man anchored right now. His own failings later. An easy decision to make once he took the time to see it.

Because he just kept coming back to the same point. Ducky's point. Morrow's point. Tony was his responsibility, pure and simple. He knew what the kid needed, regardless of the fact that neither of them had ever acknowledged it.

He would have been proud to call the man son. And he should have said so when it still might have made a difference. It was too late now.

_You really are just like him, aren't you?_

But he refused to believe that this had gone too far for him to put at least some of the damage right. Despite everything, when he'd asked Tony straight out if he wanted him to leave, he'd not taken him up on it.

That had to count for something.

He'd make it count for something.

***

"You know what's ironic about all this?"

Solemn eyes looked back at him.

"If anybody else had done this, I'd have spent the last three weeks making them wish they'd never been born."

Hadn't expected to be met with confusion. It took a moment, but then he saw what was coming, and found himself wondering if this night could be the definition of death by a thousand cuts. Each new glimpse of this other side of Tony _stung_.

"Why?"

He bit off his first instinctive answer, and the sarcasm it was coated in. "Because nobody has the right to make you feel like this. And if someone had done, I'd be making damn sure they learnt that you do not mess with my people."

"Only _you_ get to do that."

He'd asked for that. "No. You've made it very clear that I don't get to do that. And you're right."

There was silence for a while, and he listened to the wheels turning, and considered what he'd missed. Insecure – yeah, got that. But he'd thought it was a job thing - a hangover from Baltimore PD. The way he could be so cocky in the field, but still look for confirmation after the fact.

He'd thought Tony would get over it, in time. Strike that. Thought he _had_ gotten over it, by and large. Knew he still looked to him for that reassurance a bit too often, but was trying to wean him out of that habit.

And _that_ went a ways to explaining why he'd said what he did, didn't it?

He hadn't got that it was hard-wired into who the man was – and undoubtedly who the boy had been. He'd just thought it was a case of getting back on the horse again. Not that Tony was learning to read his boss's impatience and hide his own uncertainty in response.

This changed things.

"I thought you meant it." The comment that broke into his musing was quiet, and expressionless, and he knew this was something that mattered. Whatever it was.

"I know."

"No. Not that."

What else had he said? He couldn't remember anything _that_ bad. Which was nothing to go by. "Go on. What _else_ did I do?"

No excuse. He was frustrated and angry at his own short-sightedness, and for all his earlier pep talk, he let it show. Only heard the growl and the snap in the words after he was done, and knew it was a misstep straightaway. He couldn't afford to let his moods or his temper in here. Had seen enough tonight to know they'd be taken personally for reasons that weren't entirely to do with him.

Didn't need, or want, the sudden tension, or the drop of the head that proved he was right.

After a short, uncomfortable gap in conversation, where he held his breath, and Tony visibly deflated, the eyes came back, vulnerable and nervous, and oh yes, something here _mattered_. "No. Not you. It was me. I should have known… I shouldn't have… I never should have let myself think you meant it. It wasn't your fault. You weren't to know."

The personality changes were like lightning. Not so long ago, Tony had been spitting in his face with righteous anger. Now he was offering him off that hook. Absorbing the blame. Placating him…

Oh _Christ. _

_Now_ look what you did.

Start _listening_, damn it.

"Tony?" Just a look, mulish and mistrustful. "Tell me what I said."

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I should have known better."

"You mind if I judge that for myself?" The contact had melted away, leaving the younger man staring downwards, picking away at the knee of his jeans. He deliberately kept his tone easy, and light. "Tony?"

"What you said before." No more than a whisper, aimed at the same knee.

There was something very young about the voice, and the posture, and he had to work to remember he was speaking to an adult and not a child.

Not easy, when Agent DiNozzo might be one of the best they had, but Tony was always a big kid. He'd never grow up. At least not if he had a say. The first childhood had gone to hell. Why not enjoy a second?

Off the point. What he said before? Before what? Before when?

Before he let him down. When it still counted.

_Tony, as far as I'm concerned, you're irreplaceable._

And that was something, wasn't it? No wonder DiNozzo had gone volcanic when he said it again earlier. He was beginning to see just how things had gotten this bad this fast.

Briefly, he wondered if he a justifiable homicide defence would fly if he ever met certain members of the younger man's family.

Maybe he should leave that until he calmed down a bit.

Ten years might do it.

Irrelevant, Jethro. _You_ said it, then _you_ negated it. Offered him what he needed with one hand, and pulled it straight out again with the other. He wasn't being a brat. He was looking for something solid to hold on to. And you let him get a glimpse and then took it away again. No wonder he hates you.

Why wouldn't he choose to go it alone instead of coming back for more?

You _idiot_.

"I meant it. I just didn't want to say it."

No reaction at all. Hell, but this was a mess.

"Look at me." Nothing. "DiNozzo! When, exactly, did you decide it would be a good idea to start disobeying orders?"

That brought him back round, as he'd known it would. Maybe he should take up tightrope walking for light relief, if both of them survived this conversation intact. Kid looked somewhere between terrified and ashamed, and he was very glad he had a lot of practice at being the bad guy.

"I _meant_ it."

He didn't believe a word. There had to be something.

"If you had been dead, I would have quit. Ask Ducky."

"I don't…" he never finished the thought, but Gibbs could pick it up easily anyway.

"I know you don't. Maybe if I'd been man enough to admit it without you having to push, you would."

No place for your hang ups, here. Find a way through. Make him hear you.

"But-"

"No. No buts. I was worried sick about you. Full stop."

"You can't-"

"Have I ever lied to you? No – don't just tell me what you think I want to hear. _Think_ about it."

To his credit, Tony did, eyeing him briefly from under his eyelashes before going back to the knee.

Not that it mattered. He might be listening, might even be thinking, but he wasn't getting it. Needed to hit past the brain, and get a grip on the emotions driving it.

"No."

Good. Glad we've established that. Hold that thought front and centre, kid.

"Well I'm not starting now."

Just gonna play dirty instead.


	17. Chapter 17

17

"So. Leaving. How's that gonna work?"

The abrupt shift in conversation took Tony by surprise, but he was more than willing to go with it. Give praise for small mercies. He'd thought that once the other man had his teeth into that train of thought, he wouldn't let go for anything. And there was no way that would end well.

Mind you, it wasn't like he was any too comfortable with the new direction, either. Ever since Gibbs had torn through the office that afternoon and left him with a mountain of curiosity and unwanted opinion to handle, he'd heard about nothing else. What more could possibly be said that he hadn't already had thrown at him?

Come to that, it wasn't like this conversation had gone resoundingly well on their last attempt, was it?

And what kind of a question was that, anyway? A stupid one, that's what kind. And this wasn't a man who asked stupid questions, meaning that buried somewhere inside was a hidden point.

Unfortunately, he had no idea what that point was, which meant the best he could do was try to avoid giving a stupid answer.

"Ah… Not sure I follow, boss."

"Easy enough. Boston calls, you answer. Then what?"

The look that Gibbs was giving him had him distinctly worried. But for an unnerving lack of aggression, it was familiar from three years of observing interrogations – sharp and curious and leading and knowing all at once. It said '_Don't bother. I already know_.'

He didn't want to be on the receiving end of that look. It very rarely ended up on the wrong side of an argument. Which wasn't a good place to start from when he still couldn't see where this was headed.

No doubt he'd find out when it came round and bit him on the ass. "I move on and start over."

A flash of something unidentified lit through blue eyes, and he had the idea that he'd given something away, without any clue as to what. He'd just have to hope that it wasn't anything important.

"That simple? You just- what? Change your whole life like you'd change a shirt?"

He found himself torn between irritation at the sheer assumption in that question - and a sinking, yawning horror that despite as far as he was aware not having said anything about anything, still Gibbs could manage to cut straight to the heart of the matter in just a few words. Now that was something to regret about leaving. He'd _really_ like to learn how to do that.

He dragged himself out of his musings, noticed the other man was waiting for an answer, still with that same look, and thought he'd better do something about it. "I guess so."

"You guess wrong. Leaving aside the fact that you've no need to start over, because you're doing a perfectly good job here, it's not going to be that simple."

Of course not. Could have worked that one out on his own. When had life ever been that helpful?

Still, if he was looking for a positive, it sounded like he wasn't going to be made to work to find out what he was missing.

Scratch that. On second thoughts, it just discomfited him more. It really wasn't like his boss to pass up the opportunity to provide a lesson for the lesser beings in his charge.

And a random thought was suddenly a reminder of everything that had slipped away, and it hit him full in the chest once again. There would be no more guidance. He wasn't in that circle any more. Somewhere along the line that wrong deep inside him had reared its head again, and now Gibbs knew there was no point trying to teach him anything.

He forcibly put the thought aside. "It won't?"

"No. Shall I tell you what will happen?"

"That's not a question, is it?"

There was an almost smile from Gibbs. "Right." He paused, and Tony tried not to flinch as that assessing gaze raked over him once more. It took just a moment, then he carried on. "You accept the job, and set your leaving date. Next thing you know, Abby and Kate have decided that because you're a guy, you can't be trusted to find your own place, so they find it for you, letting you come along for the ride."

He'd been ready for scathing, and sarcastic. For more of the angry and the impatient. Another confrontation where his boss would bite and bark, harangue and harass, and he'd find himself back in that defensive, bitter, _desperate_ mindset that he hated so much, but couldn't seem to shake.

Instead he got this…

this…

…well, he wasn't sure he had a frame of reference for whatever this was. Sure as hell wasn't prepared for it.

He opened his mouth to respond, to try and get back in control of what was going on, but one look nailed his mouth shut. "Wait till I'm through."

He nodded, aware that it wasn't a request. But he had the definite feeling he'd be regretting it.

"Comes to your last day, and there _will _be a goodbye meal. McGee _will_ get far too drunk, thanks to you and Abs. Abby _will_ cry, and Kate _will_ pretend she isn't, and you _will_ feel like a bastard. As, incidentally, will the rest of us, even though we aren't the ones leaving."

There was no emotion in the delivery – just a slow, measured, relentless string of words that twisted and weaved and built and built around him. Utterly hypnotic. He couldn't predict them, or dodge them, which meant he had to listen to them. See them. Feel them.

Just how bad a person was he to have a part of him that could hope that these people he'd come to care about might… well… not like it when he left? That _he_ could make _them_ feel?

How much of a fool, to want to listen and to believe when he already knew the end of this story?

But Gibbs was speaking again, and expecting him to listen, and he really didn't have any other choices.

"And when you move, I'll be driving, and the girls will be giving the orders. Ducky will have brought groceries, knowing you won't have, and there'll be far too many chocolate biscuits. McGee will forget that he's half way to scared of you long enough to set up your computer, and make sure that not only are all communications working, but that you have no way of claiming you don't know how to use them."

He could feel the tightness in his chest, and in his throat, and decided he'd been so, so wrong. He didn't want to know. Couldn't listen to another word. Didn't need to hear this. To feel it. He wanted the anger back.

He swallowed hard, and shifted on the couch, and dropped his eyes.

"Tony."

Just one word. Just his name, and he knew what it meant.

_Have I ever lied to you? _

_Well I'm not starting now._

Why was Gibbs doing this? Why couldn't he just drop it? Leave him alone to try and put the pieces back together?

"I'm not done."

I know that. I know. I know, but I can't. _I can't…_

"Look at me."

Light and quiet - but still an order, and he couldn't not obey, however much he wished otherwise. This might be the last chance he got. He didn't want to let the other man down again.

He swallowed hard against the emotions for a second time, and lifted his eyes back up. They met a pair of blue ones that were unusually gentle.

That in itself was almost enough to send him running for cover.

"Thank you." Gibbs paused, and waited, and Tony made sure to keep up the eye contact. He could see when the other man was satisfied that he'd got the message, with a slight nod and a softening of the expression. He steadied himself as best he could, and waited for the monologue to start again.

"So you leave. Abs'll be pestering you on a daily basis, starting approximately half an hour after we head back to DC. She will, at least twice a week, pretend that she hit the wrong number, and then talk for forty minutes. Ducky will visit on the very first weekend, concerned you're short of food and telling you he needed the break in any case. Kate will leave it longer, appearing out of the blue after three weeks with McGee in tow, who won't look you in the eye until his second beer is more than half empty, and then will tell you how Kate really wanted to come sooner but figured you'd tease her forever if she did, and wasn't going to give you the satisfaction."

No. No. No, this was a clean break. This wasn't how it worked. They _wouldn't._ They'd be glad to see the back of him. They had to be. They couldn't follow him. He wasn't _worth _it.

"Meantime, if I get a case that giving me trouble, I'll be on the phone, getting your input on what we're missing."

_My_ input?

"And if I hear that tone in your voice that says you don't know why I'm asking you when I have my own team to draw on, you can be damn sure that I _will_ be showing up on your doorstep to show you your thinking has gone awry. And while I'm there, I'll head back in to see your new boss again to make sure he doesn't forget me. Because I'll have met him before you ever moved, and I'll have made damn certain that he knows I don't care what it says in your file about Francesco DiNozzo being your emergency contact; if anything happens, then if I'm not the first phone call he makes, he'd damn well better be prepared to explain why to me in person."

Finally, _finally,_ he stopped. Quiet began to seep back in to the apartment as Gibbs leaned back on the couch, still not dropping eye contact, and waited. Belatedly, Tony realised that for what felt like the first time in three weeks, everything was off. He wasn't thinking. He'd gone right through feeling and out the other side.

He was drained, and exhausted, and stunned.

And Gibbs was there, just there, _being_, and solid, and confounding everything he knew he knew, and he had to say something. He had absolutely no idea what.

"I… I don't…"

The small half smile was back. Gibbs looked extremely pleased with himself, and that finally managed to work something loose.

"You can't usurp a next of kin. Can you?"

He wasn't going to pretend it was the finest response he could have had. But it had words, in the right order, and they were relevant. Mostly. It would do for now.

Surprisingly, his comment punctured the other man's smile, and he watched in fascination as the expression was fleetingly taken over by a black, angry look.

"The next time you wake up in a hospital bed with a hole where there isn't supposed to be one, it will _not_ be to a secretary signed fax telling you not to expect any help with the medical fees."

He'd seen that? How had he…? When had he…? "You _saw_ that?"

"Only after you did, unfortunately. That idiot in charge in Baltimore kept a copy for your file. Legal documentation, he said."

"It's on file?" He hoped he didn't look as horrified as he felt. He was pretty sure he sounded it.

"Not any more, and only for a few hours. I burnt it, and tore him a new one."

Thank God for that. "Good."

"It was."

He'd just bet it was. Gibbs hadn't liked anyone who was anyone in Baltimore PD from the moment he set foot there. Still… "He _is_ my next of kin."

"I know."

That smile was back, playing around the corners of his mouth, and his curiosity went on high alert. "What did you do?"

A raised eyebrow, and the smile got wider. "Nothing."

"_Boss!_"

"Nothing wrong with your instincts, are there?"

"Tell me!"

"Added a note to your file. He's still down as contact. Just says I have to be the one to contact him."

Oh _God_. "Can you do that?"

"I can when you never pay any attention to any of your personnel memos."

"But…"

"Did it, DiNozzo. And I'm not sorry. Get over it."

Completely at a loss, he sat and gaped, as Gibbs studied him unashamedly. Slowly, easily, the atmosphere changed, the shock and the distraction fading away and leaving him feeling raw and exposed. After a moment, he shrank back into himself, unable to keep contact when it felt like everything that made him _him, _all the bad and the wrong and the weakness, was open and on show.

Needless to say, the reprieve wasn't allowed to last very long.

"Tony?"

It took some effort, but he raised his head again, and came face to face with a look that was gentle, and compassionate and pulled at every scar he had.

"No. No, I… Don't. You _can't_. Please…"

"It's true, Tony. Every word. And if you don't believe me, then I'll keep going until you do."

He would. He _would_. "Please. Don't. _Don't_."

Another pause, and the response came through, soft and uncompromising. "You got a real problem with people valuing you, don't you?"

There was no answer for that. Not in any words he'd ever learnt. But he didn't need them, because Gibbs hadn't finished.

"You can't carry on like this. Like I said, I'm not gonna let anybody do this to you, and that includes _you_, DiNozzo. You deserve better. _Talk_ to me."


	18. Chapter 18

18

Gibbs might have stopped speaking, but the apartment was still ringing with the echoes of everything he'd said. Tony had been immensely grateful for the chance for the thrall to break - before something else did – only to find it didn't help. Just made his internal debating all the sharper.

He couldn't listen to another word without losing whatever sense of self he had left. And if he actively thought about what had been said, something was going to short circuit.

So he focused on the practical part. The bit he could do something about. Or not.

_Talk to me._

He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. To take the whole lot, and hand it over and say _Here, this is me. Know me. Find me. Tell me it's gonna be ok._

But.

_But_.

But what could he say? It was all so bad, and so messy, and he didn't quite understand what was going on himself. How was he supposed to explain it to someone else?

And what if he did talk, only for Gibbs to decide he didn't want to know after all? If he worked up the nerve, gave it a shot, and his boss only had to hear a few sentences before he really did understand?

What then? When he realised Tony was a mistake, one who _didn't _deserve better? What would be left? How far could the pieces scatter? Another question he never wanted an answer to.

Because it was all so easy for Gibbs to pull his strings. It could just be one more game. The man could turn around and cut the ground out from under his feet with a single, casual dismissal, and not notice the difference. He already had.

And that speech was fine, and clean and pristine glorious. But how did you measure a man's intent? You couldn't. It wasn't possible. And there was the problem. There was no way to know, not without risking everything. Only the two of them there, and he didn't trust his own judgement any more. Which left Gibbs, who would simply talk him round whether he wanted it or not. Not exactly about to rely on his judgement either.

It was a well kept secret – and one he was certain the other man would never comprehend - but there were battles that it was better never to fight. Days when the only sensible choice was to cut your losses, walk away, and save your strength for a different challenge.

He could start over so easily, and it would be _his_ choice. He'd much rather his boss left here frustrated and annoyed and thinking that he was an ungrateful SOB, than he left knowing it all and regretting everything. Wishing he'd never left Baltimore with one second hand – _or was it fourth or fifth hand by now?_ – cop in tow.

If he was going to leave, he wanted it to be on his own terms, not because he tried and failed and let more people down. He didn't want to wait so long that they had to show him the door. If he didn't try and make it work, then he couldn't get it wrong. Couldn't fail. It was his to control. It would never be rejection – just a road he'd decided not to take. His choice, not his fault.

Nifty reasoning, Tony, but really, it has nothing to do with the options available, does it? Because Gibbs had been right on more than one count.

_Throw what you like at me. Figuratively or literally. I'm not going anywhere._

And he hadn't, had he? Despite any and all provocation that Tony had dredged up and sent his way, he was still there. It would appear he was running out of things to throw quicker than his boss was tiring of fielding them. And he didn't even know if he _wanted_ the other man to go any more.

Oh, he still wanted to be alone, because alone had been safety since forever. But - whisper it quietly – for the last three weeks, alone hadn't been all he remembered it being. Alone came with a constant creeping sense of unease that he couldn't shake. Alone was dusted with the scent of sewer, and sounded with a hollow echo in empty spaces. It was feeling a lot like lonely, gnawing around the edges of his control in any unguarded moment.

_You can't carry on like this._

Another point to Gibbs. That had been bang on the money. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't see sense, even if it was from a distance. He knew full well that sitting evening after evening alone in the dark wasn't too healthy. Couple it with the fact that he had to switch the lights _on_ to sleep at all and there was something definitely not right. And that was leaving aside everything else.

Up until now, he'd been ignoring everything. Convinced himself that moving on would solve all his problems. But on current evidence, he was just parcelling up another suitcase of issues to carry with him. And there was no guarantee he was up to the burden.

He wanted to believe. Wanted so badly to give in to the plain, simple, alluring words that swirled in the air around him. They were calling to the hole in the centre of him, confusing and painful, enthralling and unavoidable. He wanted them to be true. Gibbs had said they were true.

And he didn't lie to him.

It was becoming uncomfortably clear that he wasn't going to be able to sort this out on his own. He needed that help. Wanted it. Wanted those friends his boss had mentioned. Wanted to know that there was a limit. That however bad he thought this was, there was somewhere he could shelter. That it would stop. That somebody somewhere could make it stop.

He wanted to accept what was being offered.

_I'm not gonna give up on you. No matter what._

He was terribly, cripplingly afraid that the moment he stretched his hand out to take it, it would all be snatched away again. And he knew himself well enough to know that he couldn't take it. To take that chance and be wrong… that might just be enough to finish off his resilience for good. Even the thought was enough to stop the words in his throat.

And even if it didn't all slip through his fingers like grains of sand, just how did you tell a man like this that you were scared? How did you look him in the eye and ask for help without losing any respect you'd ever earned? Surrendering any chance to earn it again?

And he was back to that little word again. But. But … Gibbs had waited out the freak out in the kitchen, and stayed. Followed him when he bolted, and brought him back. Dealt with the panic attack. Made him chocolate. Actions were supposed to speak louder than words. More than a truism in the case of his boss.

Did he really think he was still hiding anything from the man after tonight?And he hasn't turned his back on you yet, has he Tony?

He wanted a way out of this mess he'd gotten himself into. He wanted that other place that Gibbs had shown him. It had all sounded so warm. Safe. Close.

But he was still cold, and he could want all he liked. The fact was he had no idea how to get to there from here.

***

Gibbs waited as Tony thought.

It was plain as daylight just how uncomfortable the younger man was with the way the conversation had gone.

Couldn't bring himself to regret a word of it.

He'd said what he said, and gotten one more of those pained, _why are you doing this to me _looks. Then the eyes had closed. Face disappeared into hands that were trembling again.

Tony had retreated into his head. This fight was being held where Gibbs couldn't even see which side had the upper hand.

_If you don't believe me, then I'll keep going until you do._

Not an empty threat. Promise. Whatever.

But not right now. Too much too soon. There was such a thing as pushing too hard. These stakes were too high to risk losing the ground he had by going on the attack when he should be lying in wait.

Instead he offered a silent plea to anyone who cared to listen that he'd said enough to break through the web of self-destructive panic the other man was tangled in.

Had to be enough. If it wasn't, he didn't think he had any more cards left to play.

Tony's mask was long gone, lost about the same time his temper had spilled over. He was glad there was no more hiding; but the indecision, the anguish, the sheer desperation were painful to see.

More so when he'd helped put them there.

He'd tried to make it as easy as he could, but he seen Tony find every last word difficult to listen to. Showed in the tension that never once let up. The stillness. The constantly shifting expressions. Bewilderment. Longing. Distress.

He'd known it would be hard. Knew it had to be done anyway.

What did it say about the kid's experiences to date that you could attack from any angle and he'd dodge and regroup and give as good as he got; but treat him with care and compassion, and he so obviously didn't have the first clue what to do with it?

There was another flash of anger, but he ignored it. It was getting easier to do.

All he could do now was wait. And he did. He had.

But the silence was too long, and Tony's head was down, unmoving, and he knew. _He knew_.

That was the last roll of the dice, and it hadn't worked, because he'd wrecked his own credibility three weeks ago.

It was his fault.

"You don't trust me."


	19. Chapter 19

19

Tony was still wrestling with _talk to me_ when Gibbs threw his second grenade into the ring. And it was a classic delayed reaction, as he heard the words in passing and carried on with his internal debate; then after a moment, he stopped short, blinked once, and rewound.

He _had_ heard what he thought he heard.

A statement, not a query. It was quiet. And flat. And an odd mix of - what?

Nonplussed.

And – lost? The last one gave him pause, and he stopped to consider for a moment, twisting it and turning it, then deciding he needed more evidence to reach any conclusions.

Which he couldn't do with his face buried away behind his hands. Intrigued enough to come out again before he remembered he was hiding, he flinched away from Gibbs' look - only to find that while he'd been dancing a mental jig, this conversation had done a full one eighty and left him standing. Or not conversation, seeing as nobody had actually said anything for a while. Encounter. That worked better.

He noted 'concentration shot to hell' on his mental checklist of things wrong with him, and then pulled himself back onto the point.

There was no look. The older man was still laid back on the couch, but the twitch of amusement and the defining solidity were nowhere to be seen. Head tilted back, eyes closed; and he looked much, much older than he usually did. Tired. _Worn_.

It was wrong. He didn't like to see it. Didn't want to. His boss was always a fact, never a question. He simply _was_, and as long as he was, then the world could keep turning. Gibbs didn't doubt. He didn't wonder. He simply bent life to his will and carried on regardless.

At least, Tony _thought_ he did.

"Boss?"

The eyes opened, and he found himself looking at someone who appeared to be every bit as bone weary as he felt himself.

After a short break of nothing at all, he realised that the older man was waiting for him to follow up. Shame he hadn't thought further than that one word.

"You ok?"

That got an incredulous look. "Am _I_ ok? You looked in the mirror recently?"

He could pinpoint the exact moment when Gibbs heard his own comment, lips thinning, eyes slipping down before coming back with a touch of defensiveness. Wondered if he should point out that actually, he knew he looked crap, and he felt about a thousand times worse, and he'd be a bit of a hypocrite to get worked up because Gibbs had noticed that he wasn't quite on top form.

Maybe he would. Later. Right now, he was rather more interested in getting an answer. A proper one.

"You're avoiding the question."

***

_He_ was avoiding the question?

Whatever else might be wrong, Tony hadn't lost any of his nerve. Not even Ducky would have tried that tack.

Couldn't quite be offended. Mainly because it was reassuring. Good to know that the Tony he knew was still about, somewhere.

"Do you know why I hired you?"

Tony looked confused and a little wary at another change of subject, but took it up anyway.

"Guilt."

"Guilt? I do _not_ hire people out of guilt, DiNozzo."

"You mean you weren't feeling guilty?"

Oh no. Not touching that with a ten foot pole.

"You can stop that right now. We are _not_ going there."

There was the slightest hint of a smile, and for the first time all night he actually began to believe Tony might still be willing to try and salvage something from this wreckage.

"Didn't start it, boss."

"Now who's avoiding the question?"

"I _answered _the question!"

And didn't that give him pause for thought? "Guilt? That's genuinely what you think?"

The smile was gone, replaced by a curious look and a small shrug. "Made as much sense as anything else."

"And you never asked?"

"At first I figured I might not want to know. After a while it didn't matter." Another shrug.

"Well it did. Does." He pulled a face at his own semantics. "For the record, then." He let it hang for a moment, but Tony said nothing. Not that he would have dropped it if he had.

"Plan was to train my own team up from scratch. Then came my trip to Baltimore, and that case. Once the dust had settled, I knew we'd work well together."

He determinedly ignored the soft snort from the other man. Refused to acknowledge the mutter of 'Compared to what?' that came his way.

"You really think I'd want a team of clones of myself?"

Tony's turn to pull a face, and he resisted the urge to stretch out and cuff him upside the head. Particularly seeing as he was agreeing with Gibbs' own point.

"So. Decided I wanted someone on board I could trust to disagree with me. Someone who wouldn't take offence at my personality. Wouldn't back down, if push came to shove. You didn't. Still don't."

The other man was blushing slightly, but listening.

"Could see your potential, and how it was being wasted. And I was selfish. Wanted your skills working with me." He paused for a moment before deciding to carry on.

"_None_ of that has changed. The fact remains, trust is vital. You can't work with me if you don't trust me. Not in this job. You'll always have a place on my team, if you want it. Just say the word."

Tony had gone very still.

"_But_, while I can understand you might need to leave, not one of us will just let you go. You can change your job, if you have to, but not your life. Got it?"

***

Well.

That was…

_Well._

For a moment, Tony just stared, wondering if anything else was coming. When it didn't, he shook his head vaguely, and stood up. Gibbs moved to speak, and he held a hand up.

"No. Just… no."

The mouth closed again, and he left the man on the couch, heading for the kitchen, and at least the _illusion_ of some space.

He spent five minutes just staring at the piece of wall he'd been pressed up against earlier in the evening, feeling the echoes of the panic at his fingertips. The shame was there too, and the tendrils of nerves, slipping and sliding around, looking for a way in.

He gave himself a shake, and deliberately turned his back on it for a second time that evening, leaning against the counter, closing his eyes and firmly blanking everything out. Then, when he felt as centred as he was going to get, he opened it all up again, trying to feel his way by instinct alone.

"_That's not how it works."_

He took no notice of how long he was there, or of the other person in the apartment, or of the hundred and one thoughts clamouring to drag him back down into the maelstrom. Instead he focused on anything and nothing. A comment here, a gesture there, just letting the events of the evening soak in to him and take him where they would.

"_How what works?"_

Took his time. He could feel everything still there, held at bay by nothing more than the force of a will that he knew full well was going to fail, sooner or later. His demons were in the shadows and the corners, just out of reach, not far enough to dodge, waiting for him to stumble, and fail, and let them all back in again. He gritted his teeth, and squared his shoulders, and refused access. Not now. Not here. Not when… there were things that had to be thought about. Important things.

"_Having friends."_

And after a while, the jigsaw began to resolve itself, and he began to see some of the threads that had been obscured before. Just enough to ask himself some questions, and offer some answers. Enough to realise that there was a difference between what he knew and what he thought he knew. Enough to face up to the fact that there were things he could deal with and things he couldn't, and that maybe he should be concentrating on the former right now, not the latter.

Providing he could work out which was which.

_Trust is vital. You can't work with me if you don't trust me._

He could feel those demons getting closer, clawing at his edges, and slapped them down one more time. Three weeks of freefall, and he couldn't even see his way to ok anymore. He was a mess. And Gibbs was right. Trust was vital.

But he was also wrong. Tony could change whatever he damn well pleased, if he chose to. All he needed was strength. Strength to decide. Strength to act. His judgement may have been a little off its game recently – personally, if not professionally - but that didn't automatically mean his conclusions were wrong.

_Where were you?_

Just meant he needed to double and triple check his evidence and see if he still came back to the same place. Take a step back. See what he'd missed. Be sure.

Easy enough to do that. He still had some fight in him, although he wasn't altogether sure where it was coming from. He'd be all out of adrenaline for months after tonight. Which was probably not a good thing. He was going to crash hard, and sooner rather than later. Wondered if this one would be the one he couldn't pick himself up from.

He pushed the thoughts away, aware they were sending him reeling right back towards the places he was trying to avoid.

_I should have known better._

Now that should be inscribed on his headstone. The thought came with its own punch line, as he flashed onto a gun, and crazy determined eyes, and his own death looming up in stone and shadow.

And by the time he fought that off, his knuckles were white, his stomach was rolling, and he could taste blood again.

_You don't trust me._

He spun around again, glaring at the offending wall, and when that wasn't enough, striding across the kitchen, changing direction halfway, and slamming the palm of his hand into the cupboard door.

Twice.

Three times.

Growled in disgust, at himself, at the cupboard, at the wall, at the general futility of trying to deny the basic facts of who he was.

He took a moment for surprise that Gibbs hadn't come stalking in to 'help', and then hit the door one more time. He could feel the throb and burn in his palm, and in his shoulder, and used them to push himself out in front of the darkness again.

Then he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.


	20. Chapter 20

20

Moving on instinct, Tony found himself towering over his boss's spot on the couch before he could think better of it. His every move had been watched by a pair of hooded blue eyes and a guarded expression that only once, briefly, flickered from his face down to his hands and back again. But the owner remained silent, and Tony refused to acknowledge the unvoiced question.

He had other things on his mind right now.

"You know what? I shouldn't trust you. I don't _want_ to trust you."

He saw the words strike home, with a something in the expression that was quickly hidden, walled away behind a deliberately blank look. After a beat, it slid into a curt nod, and he realised that the words had been as hard for his boss to hear as they had been easy for him to say.

It should have been a victory, but he felt nothing more than a hollow, empty void where the celebration was meant to be.

He thought about leaving it there, but he was so, so tired, and right at the end of his rope, and determined to do something to finish this. It was the only way he'd ever get any sort of peace tonight.

_You don't trust me._

Well that was the crux of it, wasn't it? An age old lesson, taught by an expert, that was going to last him forever. Couldn't change facts.

The longer he stood there, just looking, the more Gibbs' expression closed off. The worn look was long gone, along with any other hints that the man was anything less than fully in command.

Had he imagined there were cracks? Probably. He seemed to have developed a real talent for seeing what he wanted to, instead of reality.

So who had control here? _Really_, Tony. Who? Who's running this show? Who's making the decisions? You? Him?

Someone else?

And did it really matter any more?

No, it didn't, because it was all just more of the same.

_Finish_ it.

"But I do."

He dropped the remaining part of his declaration into the quiet, and it had a ring of finality about it that set his teeth on edge. He couldn't quite get his head around having said it out loud, and instead distracted himself by focusing on the fact that he'd actually managed to surprise the man.

To be fair, he'd been much further along to shocked when he'd realised it himself. And his mood hadn't gotten any better for the discovery. He'd have been happier not to have had it.

Didn't want to be rudely shoved face to face with the fact that he hadn't got a handle on his weaknesses in all this time. That for all the running, and the different versions of himself, he hadn't changed at all. That he still couldn't do right for screwing up. Same damn patterns, over and over again. Why hadn't he _seen_ it?

How many times had he listened and tried and trailed blindly along wherever some authoritarian bastard felt like leading? Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.

_You will do as you are told, boy. Don't you want to earn my respect?_

And exactly how many times had that worked?

Precisely. And the worst thing? He never damn well learned. Thirty years of lessons, and he was still making the same mistakes. And really, if he was that stupid, then surely he deserved everything he got?

"You see, that bottle of bourbon is still in the kitchen, middle cupboard on the right. Doesn't matter how much I tell myself not to trust you – it wouldn't still be there if I didn't. Follow the evidence, boss."

***

Gibbs supposed he should be glad to hear it, but the admission had come spitting through such a cloud of anger and resentment that he couldn't feel anything outside of the waves of emotion rolling off the younger man.

Should have been a breakthrough, but it wasn't. Not a declaration of belief. Not a door opening. No more than a single battered thread of trust that the younger man clearly believed was a weakness.

He wasn't entirely sure how to respond, and before he'd done more than thought "Right", Tony was talking again.

"Nothing to say? This is the point where you start gloating. You won."

Won? This did _not_ feel like winning.

"This isn't a competition, Tony." Deliberately kept his voice level, and calm. Could see that volatile tension building up again, and he didn't want a repeat of earlier. Still in no rush to be on the wrong end of that temper.

He'd thought they'd been getting somewhere. Had no idea how they'd ended up at odds again, Tony isolated and bitter, himself in the unfamiliar position of always being a couple of steps behind the play.

"No. You're right, it isn't. It never was, was it? Right from the moment you walked in, there was never any chance of you leaving again without your pound of flesh."

At least this time he was _aware_ he was slap bang in the middle of an unmapped minefield. It might not help him avoid the explosion, but there was always the possibility he could minimise further damage.

"You really think that's what I want?"

It was supposed to be a glare, he thought, but it wasn't. It was a searing glimpse of loss and fear. And he had to do something. _Needed_ to, for both their sakes. Couldn't just bear witness.

Didn't know _what_.

Tony was clearly not going to answer the question. So he broke the silence. "No gloating. I don't honestly get what you think I'd gloat about."

"Oh, come on!" The undercurrent of self-loathing that bled through left a burning trail on his senses. "I've seen you in action. I know how it works. You got what you came for. Now you can go. Tell the team. Tell the world – it's not like it matters any more. Make sure Kate's first though - she's gonna love this."

There was way too much wrong with that outburst.

He wanted to grab hold of the man and shake some sense into him. It took the sharp sting of nails in palms to hold himself steady, a reminder that aggression would trigger God alone knew what reaction. That even the slightest touch was unpredictable at best.

Words and presence would have to do.

"I'm not going to say anything to anyone, unless you want me to."

"Why not? It not like I've not got it coming." Gibbs had only a few seconds to try and process that comment before the direction changed again. "Tell me something - who's more worthy of contempt? The fool who doesn't know any better, and gets taken advantage of? Or the man who knows what's gonna happen, and walks in with his eyes open and lets it?"

He was barely clinging onto the edges of this conversation.

"Neither, Tony. And you _don't_ deserve it. Any of it."

A dismissive curl of the lip proved that that hadn't got him anywhere.

"Look, I don't know how we got to here, but I do know this: I will _not_ betray your trust a second time. Just tell me how I can prove it to you."

***

Oh no. No. Not going down that path. Not giving you that deal. I don't _want_ you to prove it.

Tony turned his back for a moment, aware he was still giving away things he didn't want to. Had to be, because Gibbs was still being gentle, and careful.

And it was working. He wanted to give in. Every avenue he opened, his boss firmly closed again, and he was running out of directions. He ran a hand through his hair, and pulled in a breath that was altogether too unsteady to help.

He had to get the man out. Now. Before it was too late, and something fractured and he was left with less than nothing.

He gathered the anger close around him, and turned back, using it to spur him on. "Why are you still here?" A pause. A step. "Just _go_." And there was forcefulness there, a strength to the demand he'd not been sure he could pull off.

"Because I told you I wouldn't leave."

But that strength proved to be fleeting in the face of quiet resilience, and when he spoke again it was gone, leaving his question a soft plea that tore at his self-respect. "I've had enough, boss. I can't do this any more. Just leave me alone. _Please_. Just… leave me alone."

And Gibbs said nothing, just shook his head, slowly, looking at him with… pity? Sorrow? Concern? He didn't know. Couldn't hold it for long enough to tell.

"This is my _home_." And his voice cracked and stopped, and it wasn't supposed to sound like that.

"I know. But you're one of my family, Tony, and I will _not_ let this pull you under. You end up hating me in the process, so be it."

He could feel himself staring, and the sheer unexpectedness of that remark gave him enough distraction to push the onslaught of everything back yet again.

"I don't understand."

"I got that."

"I'm not…"

"You _are_. Family, Tony. And I more than regret not making sure you knew that back when it would still make a difference."

No way of knowing if it was a lure, or actually meant. He bit down on his lip hard for a second, caught the fleeting frown that came his way, and stopped. His hands were trembling again. If they'd ever stopped.

He shouldn't even consider listening. He should know better.

"You really think this can be fixed?" It came out as little more than a whisper, much shakier than he'd intended.

"Yes, I do."

The sheer certainty in the comment cut through what was left of his resolve, and he took a couple of steps backward, finding the wall and leaning, just to be sure of staying upright.

"What if…"

Saying it was way, way harder than it should be.

"What if…"

Of course it was, because some part of him that was trying to actually learn those lessons knew that there were things that should not be admitted.

"_Abby's_ your family, boss. _Ducky_. Don't let me screw that up too."

"Not gonna happen."

For a long time, he stood, and considered, and tried to see where this conversation could go. Held it several times inside his own head. Ended the same way, each time round.

He had to start learning some time.

"I can't. I'm sorry… I can't."


	21. Chapter 21

21

Gibbs had had plenty of practice at sitting and waiting and watching for as long as it took to get the desired result.

Meant he could _do_ it. Didn't make it any easier to tolerate the journey.

Right now he couldn't quite persuade himself to move his focus off Tony, off the way his head was tucked down, his shoulders hunched, trying to hide six foot and change in as small a package as he could. Felt like abandonment, not to look.

The man was stripped bare emotionally, and he could hear how hard every word was. Saw him groping blindly for each step, and cursed his own inability to make it any easier. Too painful, this. _Way_ too painful.

He knew full well he couldn't make Tony accept help. But the kid didn't have any clue as to how to make that step alone. Vicious circle.

All you can do is encourage him, Jethro. Be there. Keep trying.

"You _can_."

He couldn't imagine what hidden demons it took to drive someone – a strong, resourceful someone, at that - to this point.

Weeks brewing. Years in the making. God alone knew what exactly had set off this meltdown.

Other than himself, anyway.

How on earth was he meant to show the man how to believe again?

Better figure that one out fast. Don't care how much he begs you to go. Leave him alone like this and it'll be the ultimate in cruelty. Not an option.

Didn't have many options, all things considered.

Knew what he would have done once, a lifetime ago.

"You know, if you were my kid I'd be over there hugging the crap outta you."

"If I was your kid, you'd know better."

Stated as fact. And it was the last straw. He'd had it with the ghost of Francesco DiNozzo in the room.

Words were _not_ going to solve this.

Before he could think twice about it, he was on his feet. Crossed the room quickly, and Tony's head was still down. Kid didn't see him till it was a done deal.

"No! No. I-"

Wasn't listening. Up in his face, and with the wall at his back he had nowhere to go. Caught his eye, and held it, and told a truth.

"From what I can tell, your father knew nothing about family, nothing about kids, and nothing about you."

Tony's head was shaking in denial. Looked ready to run again. This time, Gibbs made damn sure there was no way past.

***

Tony was a fraction too slow, and before he knew it, he found himself trapped, wall behind him, one arm either side of his head, full on Gibbs in his face. There was one moment of bright, clear shock, then the panic broke free, sweeping through him in a flood of pure ice, rushing and racing and submerging him completely.

He fought. Shoved hard at the man in front of him, hitting out without thought or reason, trying to force a break. But all that happened was that the arms took a grip, and tightened, and held despite his frantic struggling. Wasn't until the wave of terror eventually eased a little, that he realised he was speaking. _Pleading_. "No", and "Don't" and "Please".

And he could hear Gibbs as well, murmuring quietly in his ear. "It's ok." "I got you." "Just let it go."

But he couldn't give in, because he couldn't have this now and never have it again, because that _would_ break him.

It was too late though. He could feel himself shattering into tiny pieces, and as soon as Gibbs let go they'd all fly apart, and he'd never find a single one of them again.

Then what would become if him? He knew, and he didn't know, and the panic came back. He fought some more, and it got him nowhere.

"Take it easy, kid. Stop now. It's ok."

It wasn't ok. It would never be ok.

But there was nothing left. And he wanted this so badly. Wanted to feel like someone cared, if only for a few minutes. Desperately needed to feel that he wasn't on his own in the face of it all. Wanted to be _known_.

He should know better. Did know better, but it didn't change anything. Because you still couldn't argue with facts. No point in fighting when the battle had already been lost.

***

Gibbs felt the moment when Tony gave in, briefly offered thanks, and held just a little bit tighter, stroking the back of his neck in an attempt to soothe.

The breathing hitched, and stuttered, and settled again.

"She… she took my control. Never saw her coming. I couldn't _stop_ her."

So _that_ had been what he was hiding. Or part of it, at any rate.

"It…It's all _gone_."

He never wanted to hear the younger man sound like this. Bewildered. Desolate.

"I can't… can't find me, any more. Can't get it back."

So _young_. So lost.

Made his throat ache, just listening.

"I'll help you. It's going to be ok, Tony. It's going to be ok."

***

He felt so empty, and so broken, and Gibbs had it all now. No point hiding anything any more. If he wanted to grind him into the dirt, he could. He had no say.

Everything was out of his control, and he realised it a hundred times a day. Each time was a sharp as a new wound.

It could all happen again, now, tomorrow, next week, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Tell me."

The command broke into his spiralling thoughts, sending a brief shiver down his spine. Still gentle. Didn't Gibbs know he didn't have to be anymore? That he'd tell him whatever he wanted to know?

Anything. Just… didn't know what he expected to hear. Couldn't bear to get it wrong. Needed a clue

"What… what do you…"

There was no sound, but he still heard the sigh, and he stiffened and tried to pull away again. But Gibbs didn't let him, and he knew it was a command, and forced himself to stay where he was and surrender to the contact.

"What if, you said. What if what?"

How did he do that? Effortlessly home in wherever he didn't want to go, and drag him along without trying?

Didn't matter. He wasn't running this show. Had to spit it out this time. Couldn't worry about handing power over, because he'd only been fooling himself that he ever had any in the first place. "What if… I don't want to run?"

It was so quiet, that he was almost surprised Gibbs heard it. But there was something oddly light in the voice that responded. "Then something tonight will finally be going my way."

"I don't… I don't know if I can stay. Everything's _wrong_."

"Then we'll put it right, Tony, one piece at a time."

He was still wondering if that was even possible, and why Gibbs was saying we, when he felt the arms pulling at him. "Sit down."

Didn't know what else to do but follow orders, so he sat, and that was when the arms disappeared, and the warmth along with them. And it _hurt_. Every bit as much as he'd known it would, and he grabbed on to the threads with an effort, wrapping his arms around himself to try and keep the feeling a little longer, to see if he could hang on to any of the pieces. He couldn't look, because the tears were in his throat, and his mouth and his nose, and they were all that was stopping him from the utter humiliation of begging to have the comfort back. So he stared at the floor as hard as he could, and wondered how come every inch of his skin hurt.

The hand that suddenly arrived on his shoulder had him scraping himself down off the ceiling.

"Easy."

_Easy?_ Breath was coming a mile a minute, and one of those tears had escaped. And this was the worst torture imaginable, to offer someone what they most desired for not nearly long enough, and then take it away again; to hold it at arms length, where it could be seen but not owned.

Gibbs had him now.

"Look at me, Tony."

He didn't want to, but obeyed without hesitation. And there was a sharp intake of breath, and a shocked look, and he was ashamed and lost and embarrassed and weak, but he knew how to do as he was told.

And the head shook, and the hand on his shoulder burned, and another tear was following the first, and he had no choice, and no control, and he didn't think he was Tony any more.

He was _Anthony._ He was _Boy._ He was his father's son, and he always would be.

He was disappointment, and failure, and wrong.

"No. No you don't. Come here."

The hand on his shoulder _pulled_, and _pressed_, and then the arms were back, and the warmth was back, and this wasn't how it happened. This was never how it happened, no matter how much he hoped, or wanted, or tried.

He ached to be able to curl in forever, but he didn't dare, because he knew as soon as the arms realised how much they were wanted, they'd be gone. But he couldn't fight, because there was nothing left; and anyway, things would only get worse if he did.

Then the solidity under him shifted, and twisted, and he was half lying on the couch, and half on solid warmth, and he heard a choked down protest, and figured after a while it might have been him.

He stayed folded around himself, until there was a snort, and he felt movement, one arm, another, always with the warmth never losing touch. And he let himself be rearranged until he was placed to return the hold, and he hated himself for giving in, but he couldn't help but cling on. He waited to be pushed away, to be left alone in the cold and the dark, hurting and disorientated and lost.

But the warmth stayed, and the arms held tighter, and a voice just above his ear spoke.

"Not going anywhere, kiddo. Just let it go. I got you."

And he tensed, although he knew he shouldn't. And then he tensed some more, because he knew what happened when he didn't do as he was told.

"Tony? One more question."

He waited in silence.

"Tell me you know who I am."

He had to think for a minute, and that scared him a little, but the answer was there when he reached for it, even if his voice was tight and foreign.

"Yes, boss."

"Good boy."

It was all it took. One strangled, hopeless, animal sound of pain and despair and fear, and then the dam broke.

He knew tears were wrong, and weak and would not be tolerated. But he couldn't hold out anymore, each breath feeling like it was being ripped out by a force far greater than he had ever had.

And this time the arms stayed, one hand stroking his hair, the other holding him together, as the voice gently rumbled on in the background. And he cried.


	22. Chapter 22

22

Time passed, and after it had continued to do so for a while, the turmoil receded far enough that Tony could get a toehold back on himself. For a couple of minutes he concentrated on breathing, uncomfortably aware of the tendency for those panic attacks to come in groups.

As soon as he was sure there would be no repeat, he pulled away again, and this time it was allowed. He sat up hurriedly, refusing to look back, sniffing, and clearing his throat, and never once lifting his eyes from the floor.

"God – I… I'm sorry. I-"

"Don't be."

"But I…"

"Are you arguing with me?" Gibbs' voice held a wry tone that really threw him. Then the other man carried straight on, answering his own question. "Of course you are. What else would you be doing?" There was the rustle of movement. "Stay there."

Feet left, and feet returned, and he was exactly where he had been. A press to his shoulder had him leaning back on the couch, eyes sliding shut on their own.

The sudden chill of a wet cloth on his face was a true blessing, and he reached up to take it, holding it to his aching head.

"Th… Thanks." Curse that damn stutter. Another habit that should have been long gone. "Gibbs, I really am-"

"Do you feel better?"

Cut off again, it took him a moment to get head on with the question. Didn't make any difference to his ability to answer. "Define better."

"Did it help?"

He thought about it for a while, then shrugged. "I don't know."

"It helped." He sounded absolutely definite about that, and Tony figured it wasn't his place to disagree, especially not when he didn't know either way. "Nothing to apologise for. Happens to us all."

The comment was so damn matter of fact that his eyes flew open before the rest of him could interfere. Gibbs was squatted down in front of him, and when he made eye contact, offered a glass of water.

He took it automatically, swallowing and wincing at the rawness of his throat, eyes never once stopping as they scanned what he saw for something other than the normality on show.

Looked for the disapproval, the mockery, the disgust. Couldn't see them.

"You find it?"

_What? _ His lack of understanding must have shown on his face, as the lips twitched sideways and then Gibbs carried on. "Whatever you're searching my face for."

He shook his head without a word.

"That good? Or bad?"

He shook his head again. Followed up this time. "It's… outside my realm of experience."

The look hardened briefly. "Good, then."

"Boss?" Come _on_, Tony. Say it already. "I'm sorry. I never meant for that to happen."

"One last time – don't be. And that's all your free warnings. Next one's a slap upside the head, headache or no." The look softened again. "I think, after all this, that had to happen. Just glad you didn't do it alone."

A long, _long_ way outside of his experience.

He sat for a while, content to simply be, not really able to keep eye contact, and glad that Gibbs wasn't asking him to. But he couldn't stop himself thinking, and eventually the one question on continuous loop in his head made its way into the open.

"What happens next?"

He braced himself for whatever was coming, only to find himself wrong footed yet again. "Sleep. You're exhausted. So'm I. Mind if I take the couch?"

He could feel himself gaping again.

Gibbs caught it, and called him on it. "What?"

Exactly, Tony. What? Just answer the man. "Nothing. Go for it."

The head tilted to one side, eyed him up before responding. "Out with it."

He didn't respond.

"Come on. Whatever's on your mind, let's hear it."

"Wh…why aren't you mad?"

He realised he'd been wrong about that a second later, when another black look rolled across. Recoiled on autopilot, and felt a little guilty when the look was chased away by one that reflected that guilt back to him.

"I am. But not at you, because you have done _nothing_ wrong. And I'm gonna keep telling you that until you hear me." He paused, squatted back down, and the gentle voice was back, completely at odds with the words. "I'm mad at _me_. At idiot men who try to ship women around in containers. At those people who were supposed to be your family. Not at _you_."

Had to nod. Acknowledge that honesty. "Ok."

***

Ok.

Finally.

Gibbs was not about to fool himself that everything would fall magically back into place again. But the corner had been turned. He was sure of that.

Must have been. Tony had just accepted an explanation at face value. Major improvement.

"Still not going anywhere, DiNozzo."

Kid swallowed hard and nodded again. Tony looked like hell, but then he felt like it, so they were getting on for even.

That had been brutal. Necessary, but brutal. Listening…

That moment when he'd realised that it wasn't being touched that set him off, but the expectation of _losing_ it again, his own composure had been stretched. He'd been looking directly at the child then, who understood nothing other than that it _hurt_.

He had the definite idea that Tony would be ready to bodily throw him off the roof long before he was ready to leave him alone.

Could wait, that. Was needed here a while yet.

Could all wait.

"You want a pillow for that couch?" Tony's voice, a little stronger, a little less raw, startled him out of his thoughts.

"Think you could stretch to a blanket as well?"

"Guess so."

Kid moved to get up, but Gibbs beat him to it, sticking out a hand.

There was no movement. He waited.

"Friends, huh?" After a moment, the younger man reached up, grabbed on, and pulled himself to his feet. Then he carried on, uncertainty clear in the voice. "You know, it'll all still be there in the morning."

"I know."

"Not gonna be easy, is it?"

"They say nothing worth it ever is."

He caught a flicker of dark emotion crossing the other man's face. Was going to stop that before it got any further. "It _is_ worth it."

"You really think-"

"_Family_, Tony. The way it's meant to be. Doesn't matter how hard that gets, it's always worth it."

The nod he got was tentative, but it would do for tonight.

Didn't want to dwell here. Not just yet. Needed to nudge him onto lighter things.

"I'll still be here in the morning too." Waited a beat. "If you ever get me that blanket."

"On it, Boss."

* * *

**Author's Note:** So that's it. Complete. Two points, and both will be expanded on my LJ if you want the waffly version.

First - major, major thanks to all who reviewed. You're amazing!

Second - wondering if this needs a sequel, or not. Would be interested in your opinions - feel free to PM or email if you like, as long as you mean well!


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